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CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 








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CHANCE—AND 
THE WOMAN 

A ROMANCE 

BY 

ELLIS MIDDLETON 

Author of 

"The Road of Destiny” 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

MCMXXIV 






First published in the United 
States of America, September, 1924, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 

Published, September, 1924 

Second Printing, (before publication), August 7, 1924 


SIFT 



Printed in the United States of America 






TO 

MY SISTER 
















CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Tells How Chance Jested with Mr. 

Stephen Burgoyne. 1 

II. Wherein Stephen Arbitrates Betwixt a 

Viscount and a Tinker.14 

III. Wherein Lord Alverford Unfolds a 

Madcap Plot.29 

IV. Shows How Easily Comedy Can Develop 

Into Tragedy.47 

V. Finds and Leaves Stephen in Dire 

Straits ..59 

VI. Describes the Colonel's Mortification, 
the Sergeant’s Dilemma, and Lady 
Averill’s Triumph. 76 

VII. Tells How Lord Alverford Receives a 

Mysterious Visitor.95 

VIII. Wherein Lady Averill Defies the 

Colonel and Befriends Stephen . . 109 


IX. In Which Sir Randolph Shows His 

Hand More Plainly Than Is Wise . 124 

X. Relates What Chanced on the Way to 
Darnch ester Gaol. 


139 










CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XI. Tells How a Corinthian Dined with a 

Tinker, a Quack, and a Thief . . 157 

XII. Wherein Carless Takes Precautions 

and Stephen Makes a Vow . . . 174 

XIII. Renders Stephen’s Vow Vastly Diffi¬ 

cult of Redemption. 189 

XIV. Relates How Stephen and Sir Ran¬ 

dolph Gorst Fought for a Peculiar 
Prize. 209 

XV. Places Stephen in a Sorry Dilemma . 226 

XVI. In Which a Handkerchief Plays a 

Momentous Part. 245 

XVII. Tells How Stephen Again Found Him¬ 
self Captive. 253 

XVIII. In Which the Colonel Is First Wor¬ 
ried, Then Amused, and Last of All 
Mystified. 267 

XIX. Brings Tears to Lady Averill and Joy 

to Stephen. 279 

XX. Tells How Lady Averill Outwitted Sir 

Randolph Gorst. 291 

XXI. Tells of Grim Happenings in Greypool 

Wood. 307 

XXII. Wherein Jerry Dodd Experiences an 

Eventful Evening. 317 

XXIII. Tells How Carless Came Just Too 

Late to Pay His Debt.336 

XXIV. Brings the Tale to an End .... 351 












CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 





CHANCE-AND THE WOMAN 


CHAPTER I 

TELLS HOW CHANCE JESTED WITH MR. STEPHEN 
BURGOYNE 

T HE blacksmith straightened his broad back, and shook 
his head solemnly as he transferred his gaze from the 
horse’s fetlock, which he had been examining, to the high¬ 
bred, handsome face of the gentleman in the blue coat who 
stood impatiently tapping his dusty top-boots with his 
riding-whip. 

“It’s not a bit o’use, sir,” he said. “He’ll none be fit 
to carry you for a week or more. It’s a tidy bad sprain, I 
doubt.” 

“Humph! I feared as much,” responded his customer 
gloomily. “ ’Tis a pestilent misfortune, for I am due in 
London within the week.” 

“London, sir!” echoed the smith, opening his blue eyes 
wide. “Why, you’re nigh on half a day’s ride inside th’ 
Lancashire border, and I reckon London’s a tidy long way 
fro’ Lancashire. It’ll be a fair while afore that horse o’ 
yours’ll be ready for such a journey as yon.’* 

The gentleman in the blue coat made no reply, but 
stared abstractedly out through the open door at the dusty 
road. The frown of perplexity which made two well- 
defined furrows between his brows in no wise detracted 
from his good looks, adding rather to the suggestion of 
strength of character which shone in his steadfast grey 

1 


2 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


eyes and which was confirmed by the set of his clean square 
jaws and close-lipped mouth. His tall figure, with its 
broad back and slim waist, was accentuated by the perfect 
cut of his coat, and his buckskins fitted without crease or 
wrinkle from hip to boots. 

For once in a way Mr. Stephen Burgoyne was a prey to 
indecision. Having behaved that day in a manner more 
befitting a boy of eighteen than a man of well-nigh thirty 
summers, he in consequence found himself stranded in 
a village of which he did not even know the name; and 
he at length confessed to himself that it served him right! 
And having thus shouldered the blame, he wasted no time 
in self-commiseration, but decided to set about making the 
best of the situation. 

“What is this place called?” he asked. 

“Bolderburn, sir,” replied the smith. 

The name seemed familiar, but, although Mr. Burgoyne 
pondered it awhile, the circumstances in which he had 
previously heard it eluded his memory. 

“Meseems, then, ’tis in Bolderburn I shall have to rest 
content—for tonight, at all events. There is an inn here 
which accommodates travellers, I presume?” 

“Aye, sir, and not a better i’ all England,” declared the 
smith emphatically. “The Nag’s Head is happen a bit 
old-looking and weather-scarred, but it’s a gradely house 
for all that, and a favorite calling-place with the gentry 
as live round these parts. Tom Hindle keeps it, and what 
Tom doesn’t know about th’ brewing o’ ale’s not worth 
knowing.” 

“And does that account for the popularity of his inn?” 
enquired Mr. Burgoyne idly. 

“Aye, that it does! There’s nobody has a properer taste 
for good ale than gentlefolk; and though you’ll happen 
not believe me, sir, it’s none so long since th’ Prince himself 
stopped there and supped two pints o’ Tom’s ale within 
ten minutes, for I seed him do it with my own eyes.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


3 


“I’m not surprised at that if the ale be as good as you 
say it is,” laughed Mr. Burgoyne. “The only thing that 
astonishes me is that he didn’t make it three, for I chance 
to be acquainted with His Royal Highness.” 

The smith stared at him incredulously. “You know th’ 
Prince!” he said, in wonderment. “D’ye mean to say as 
you know him to—to speak to?” 

“I have that honor—though mayhap ’tis a somewhat 
doubtful one,” returned Mr. Burgoyne drily. 

“Well, now, whoever would ha’ thought it!” exclaimed 
the smith. “Who’d ha’ thought o’ me, Jim Thistleton, 
standing here chatting casual-like to a friend o’ th’ Prince’s! 
I reckon as you must be a dook, or some’at o’ th’ sort, 
sir.” 

“No, I am merely a commoner like yourself. Burgoyne 
is my name, and I have no title other than plain Mister.” 

The smith picked up a small hand-hammer and struck 
several aimless blows on his anvil before he replied. 

“You gentry must have your little joke,” he commented, 
at length. “You’ll scarce be expecting me to believe as 
th’ Prince makes friends o’ folk as isn’t even lords.” 

“Yet he has named me so on more than one occasion. Con¬ 
sequently, men have counted me unduly favored of for¬ 
tune ; for my own part, methinks there is room for debate on 
the point,” said Mr. Burgoyne whimsically. “However, I 
must seek a lodging. Think you I can get proper care and 
attention for my horse at the Nag’s Head?” 

“Surely you can. Tom Hindle’s son Jack took to hosses 
from th’ day he were born just like a duck takes to water, 
and he’ll cure yon sprain quicker’n anybody I knows on.” 

“Good. Then I’ll seek him at once.” 

Mr. Burgoyne led his limping horse out of the smithy 
and down the road. He had no difficulty in finding the 
Nag’s Head, which was only about thirty yards away, and 
which stood out from the clustering cottages by virtue of 


4 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

its size and appearance and the remarkable sign which 
hung over its low doorway. 

This sign is worthy of some little description. It pur¬ 
ported to illustrate the name of the house and to be a 
representation of the head of a noble Arab steed; but surely 
such an extraordinary horse had never been foaled by any 
mare outside Bedlam! The animal portrayed was apparently 
a skewbald of bright chestnut and white, in addition to which 
combination of colors it possessed several by-no-means- 
negligible spots of slate grey. Its eyes, which, doubtless 
to match huge and fiery nostrils, revealed an ominous 
amount of white, were of a vivid and awe-inspiring azure 
blue; and its lips were drawn back tightly to expose to the 
wondering public gaze a set of perfect and regular teeth 
which would have been a distinct adornment to the mouth 
of a lady of fashion, but which were somewhat out of place 
between the jaws of a horse. 

The landlord, Tom Hindle, was inordinately—albeit un¬ 
reasonably—proud of this sign. It was comparatively new, 
and had been painted by an unknown artist who had chanced 
to call at the inn one fine summer morning for the purpose 
of lubricating a parched throat. After one draught of the 
famous ale he had promptly made the landlord an offer to 
repaint the then indecipherable sign on condition that his 
mug was kept replenished during his arduous labors. At 
first Hindle had not seemed enamored of his magnanimity; 
but the artist had proceeded to resolve his doubts by darkly 
hinting that he was infinitely more renowned for his talents 
than was Sir Thomas Lawrence, and was wandering incog¬ 
nito through the North of England in search of subjects in 
landscape and figure. 

The result was that Hindle succumbed to the artist’s 
blandishments, and the artist succumbed to Hindle’s ale. 
Whether it was that the day was unduly hot or the artist’s 
throat incredibly dry is a matter for conjecture, but the 
landlord was wont to boast that the Royal Academician (!) 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


5 


had worked from noon to dusk at his task, and that during 
that period he emptied his pint pot no less than twenty- 
three times! Hindle also recounted with gusto the fact that 
before painting the eyes of the noble quadruped the artist 
had to be revived with a bucketful of cold water applied 
externally, which possibly accounted for their unusual color 
and their abnormal squint. 

Mr. Burgoyne’s approach did not go unmarked. A tall, 
slim man, clad in breeches and cloth gaiters and a long- 
pointed canary-colored waistcoat, stood bareheaded and 
coatless leaning against one side of the open gateway to 
the inn yard. He scrutinized the lame horse with apprais¬ 
ing eyes, vouchsafing but a casual glance to its owner, 
what time he effortlessly turned a straw with full red lips 
and curled a silky whisker with the horny fingers of his 
right hand. As Mr. Burgoyne halted before him, he 
abandoned his lounging attitude, and took a step forward, 
but he still kept his eyes fixed steadfastly on the animal. 

“My horse has gone lame,” volunteered Mr. Burgoyne 
pleasantly, “and I am compelled to seek shelter and rest 
for him. Are you by any chance the Mr. Jack Hindle of 
whom the smith told me ?” 

“Aye,” returned the other, spitting out his straw and re¬ 
placing it with another which chanced to be within reach. 

“Then you will probably know as well as I do what my 
horse requires?” 

“Better,” asserted the landlord’s son impassively. 

“Hum! You are not without assurance, though you 
are deuced curt of speech,” said Mr. Burgoyne, slightly 
ruffled. “Anyway, I’ll leave him in your care until I have 
broken my fast, and by that time you will perhaps be able 
to tell me how long it will be before he is fit for me to 
ride.” 

“Tell you now. Fortnight.” 

“A fortnight!” echoed Mr. Burgoyne in dismay. “Pre- 


6 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


posterous! I cannot leave him here for two whole weeks. 
’Tis quite impossible!” 

“Fortnight,” repeated Hindle with finality; and, like one 
who has propounded a fact that admits of no argument, 
he took hold of the horse’s bridle and promptly led him 
away from his nonplussed owner. Mr. Burgoyne’s eyes 
followed his retreating steed until they saw him disappear 
into a loose-box, and then, with a short laugh of vexation, 
he turned away and entered the inn. 

Neither the landlord nor his wife was in evidence when 
Mr. Burgoyne entered the building; but his immediate 
needs were gratified by a very pretty and very efficient serv¬ 
ing maid, and it was not long before he was comfortably 
ensconced in a private sitting-room in the enjoyment of a 
well-cooked and substantial repast. 

And he had barely finished his meal when the landlord 
himself bustled in with a bottle of wine which he had or¬ 
dered. Tom Hindle was a rotund man with a large, 
good-humored red face, and he did not in the slightest 
degree resemble his tall, taciturn son either in looks or man¬ 
ner. As became the proprietor of a popular house of re¬ 
freshment, he was urbane and interestingly talkative, and 
he now approached his guest full of apologies for his failure 
to welcome him upon his arrival. 

“Me and th’ missis was away over to Mansfield to buy 
a few oddments,” he explained. “I hope as you’ve been 
attended to proper, sir.” 

“I have lacked for naught,” smiled Mr. Burgoyne. “Yet 
I am anxious about my horse. He has strained a ligament 
of his off foreleg between knee and fetlock, and he will need 
every care to put him right again within a reasonable time.” 

“Aye, my lad Jack told me about him just now. You’ve 
no need to worry your head over him, sir; he’s in good hands. 
Jack hasn’t got th’ gift o’ th’ gab, but there isn’t a cleverer 
lad wi’ hosses i’ Lancashire—no, nor i’ Yorkshire neither, 


CHANCE—-AND THE WOMAN 7 

though I says it as is his father. Are you going to stay here 
till your hoss is well again, sir?” 

Such an idea had not hitherto occurred to Mr. Burgoyne, 
and he hesitated before answering. “No, I think not,” he 
said slowly. “Your son tells me that ’twill be a fortnight 
ere he is fit for the road, and I know not how I should 
pass the time until then. Besides, I ought to be in London 
by the end of the week. So I think my best plan will be 
to start out by coach tomorrow, and to send for my horse 
in two or three weeks’ time. However, I will tell you my 
plans in the morning.” 

Left to himself, Mr. Burgoyne went over in his mind the 
events of the day. And if his face were an index to his 
thoughts, their recollection gave him little pleasure, for 
the longer he mused the deeper became the frown on his 
broad brow. It would have been patent to anyone who had 
seen him as he sat there puffing at a long clay pipe that he 
was the prey of irritation—an irritation intensified by the 
knowledge that his recent conduct had been inexcusably 
foolish and impulsive for a man of the world and one who 
prided himself upon his coolness of judgment. 

The facts were these. Mr. Burgoyne had been on a 
visit to his only living relative, an uncle who resided near 
Kendal and who had been dangerously ill; but, after seeing 
the old man well on the way to convalescence, he had set off 
south again towards London, where he occupied bachelor 
apartments in a fashionable quarter. He had despatched his 
heavy luggage by the mail, carrying with him in his saddle¬ 
bags only such articles as were indispensable to a horseman 
with a long journey before him. 

On the second day of his ride, after a hearty breakfast at 
the hostelry in which he had slept overnight, he had taken 
the road blithe of heart and rejoicing in the glories of a 
perfect spring morning. He felt that fortune was smiling 
upon him, for, apart from his outward journey, he had never 


8 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


been so far north before, and he had pictured Lancashire as 
a bleak and barren county upon which the sun seldom shone, 
and where snow and fog held sway for the greater part of 
the year. It may be that the wine of the northern spring 
had got into his blood, or perhaps it was that the lilting 
song of mating birds awakened in his heart something which 
had hitherto slept; but, whatever the primary cause, Mr. 
Burgoyne suddenly found himself with a mind obsessed by 
a disturbing tumult of thought which refused to be 
banished. 

He had been in the saddle for about an hour, and was 
trotting along in great content, when he observed, standing 
by the roadside some distance ahead of him, two horses. 
Their riders had dismounted, and, as Mr. Burgoyne ap¬ 
proached, he saw that one of them, a groom, was engaged 
in remedying a trifling defect in the harness of one of the 
animals. A yard or two away, awaiting the completion of 
his task, stood a woman, evidently a lady of quality, whose 
graceful and unstudied pose at once riveted Mr. Burgoyne’s 
attention. 

Her head was averted, but the direct rays of the sun 
struck upon a moderately tall figure clad in a perfectly cut 
riding-habit of deep plum color. The lovely contours of 
the full rounded bosom and curving hips were cleanly de¬ 
fined by the tailored garments, and might have belonged to 
a sculptor’s model. Mr. Burgoyne involuntarily checked 
his horse to a walk, in the hope that he might catch a 
glimpse of the face which went with this wonderful shape— 
at the same time steeling himself against the disappointment 
which his worldly wisdom warned him would surely follow 
the gratification of his desire. 

But for once his worldly wisdom had played him false. 
Almost immediately, attracted by the sound of his horse’s 
hoofs, the lady turned her eyes in his direction, and Mr. 
Burgoyne, inured as he was to radiant visions of feminine 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


9 


loveliness, positively gasped, for he beheld the face of his 
secret dreams. Here was his ideal woman in the flesh; 
and he so far forgot himself and his manners as to stare 
at her with wide-open eyes thenceforward until his horse had 
passed her. 

And, indeed, there was much excuse for his unmannerly 
behavior. Her face was full, and complexioned like a rose- 
leaf, its delicate coloring overlaid with a slight tan. Her 
heavily lashed eyes, set wide apart under dark, straight 
brows, were the color of new-born violets, and the little 
curls which had escaped from under her black hat shone 
in the sunlight like strands of burnished gold. Her nose 
was short and straight, and if her beauty had a flaw it was 
in the mouth, which was rather too wide for perfection, but 
which was full-lipped and firm, and red and alluring as a 
ripe cherry. 

Just now, however, her glance was cold and her bearing 
haughty. She was used to admiration, but she resented Mr. 
Burgoyne’s unblinking stare, deeming it due to the boldness 
of the libertine; and the curl of her lips and the manner 
in which she tapped the palm of her left gauntlet with her 
riding-whip left him in no doubt as to her hastily-formed 
opinion of him, for he was wise in his knowledge of feminine 
storm-signals, and knew that he had sinned grievously. 

Nevertheless, he rode away from her with her image 
stamped indelibly on his mind; and he must needs give his 
imagination rein to play about the memory of her lovely 
face. For all its proud haughtiness, he could picture that 
face melting into ineffable tenderness. He could see those 
cold eyes swimming with tender love-light for some thrice- 
blessed male, and those scornful lips pouting adorably to re¬ 
ceive his kiss. 

For the remainder of the morning he rode forward 
engrossed in the building of dream castles, until at length 
he awoke to the fact that he was on the outskirts of a town. 


10 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


The sight of the streets and houses banished his dreams and 
filled him with a vague discontent, for was he not leaving 
behind him the green and fragrant country in which dwelt 
that adorable woman, to bury himself in a drab city of 
bricks and mortar wherein he could never hope to meet 
her? 

Was there among all the vaunted town’s belles one half 
so glorious as she? Where lay the sense in his returning 
to the round of inane gaiety which had long since ceased to 
hold any pleasure for him ? What delight did it give him to 
be one of the Prince’s boon companions in his crazy excur¬ 
sions to Brighton? Did not the sycophants who fawned 
upon him in the hope of profit fill him with contempt, and 
was he not heartily tired of those Bacchanalian feasts from 
which it was considered a disgrace to go home sober? All 
these and a thousand like questions he asked himself as he 
sat at table in the posting-house at which he had stopped to 
lunch, with the result that when he again got to saddle he 
turned his horse’s nose towards the north instead of in his 
original direction. 

, His determination to retrace his steps was born of im¬ 
pulse even as he had lifted foot to stirrup in the act of 
mounting, but, once having been taken, it became fixed and 
unalterable as granite. He cursed himself for an impet¬ 
uous fool, and reason demanded of him what he hoped to 
gain by his folly. He might just as well try to discover 
the bag of gold at the foot of a rainbow or to capture one of 
those swift-moving martins that winged their glorious flight 
through the clean warm air as to make the acquaintance of 
the woman whose beauty had intoxicated him, and who had 
scattered his calm and somewhat detached outlook on life 
to the four winds. Yet all the while his horse bore him 
steadily back to the spot where he had seen her, and at 
every bend and twist in the road his heart leapt within him 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 11 

at the possibility that he might, within the next moment 
or so, encounter her. 

At length he came abreast the place where she had stood. 
He had no doubts as to its position, for it was clearly photo¬ 
graphed in his brain; and he dismounted with an eagerness 
and alacrity foreign to his nature. What he hoped to find 
there he probably could not have told, but he searched all 
round about him with the thoroughness of a housewife look¬ 
ing for a lost guinea. But the only sign of her former pres¬ 
ence which rewarded him was the mark of one of the little 
heels of her riding-boots in the soft turf; otherwise he found 
not so much as a hairpin. 

Vaguely disappointed—though why he should be he did 
not know—he stood for awhile absently stroking his horse’s 
nose and wondering as to his next step. Should he continue 
porth or should he resume his interrupted journey London- 
wards? It did not take him long to decide. He had 
already lost nearly a day in pursuit of a whim, and to 
waste any more time thus would be indulging folly too far. 
Tomorrow the woman he had seen would be just a pleasant 
memory; next week he would have forgotten her very 
existence. He would get him on his way at once, and 
banish from his mind the siren whose loveliness had made 
him temporarily deaf to the call of home. With a short 
laugh of self-contempt he mounted; and at this juncture 
Chance intervened, as she so often does. 

For, no matter how carefully plans may be formed or 
contingencies foreseen, man is, in the main, powerless to 
control his own fate. More often than not, the things that 
make life beautiful—a man’s honor, a woman’s love, a 
child’s life—lie in the hollow of the careless hand of 
Chance, the jester. 

Preoccupied, Stephen had failed to notice that the grass 
bordering the road was hereabouts honeycombed with rab¬ 
bit-holes, and almost before he was settled in his seat his 


12 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


horse put a foot in one of them, and nearly threw him. And 
he had not gone many more paces before he realised that the 
animal was limping. A cursory examination of the off 
foreleg convinced him that it behoved him to seek the near¬ 
est inn and to rest his horse until the morning in the hope 
that the injury would prove less serious than he feared; 
and, as it chanced, he had little over half a mile to walk 
before he came upon the smithy in Bolderburn village. 

And now, as Mr. Burgoyne recalled all this, the humor 
of the situation struck him, and he laughed aloud. Who 
among his friends in town would believe the story if ever 
he told it? The idea that Stephen Burgoyne—Corinthian 
of Corinthians, arbiter of fashion, known far and wide as 
impervious to feminine wiles and charms—would hunt the 
countryside for the further sight of a woman whom he had 
glimpsed but for a fleeting minute would be incredible to 
all who knew him; and it was this thought that smoothed 
the frown from his brow and revived his drooping spirits. 

After all, why should he not linger awhile in this village? 
’Twas a pleasant enough place; and if the food which he 
had just eaten and the wine which stood at his elbow were 
any criterion, the inn was beyond reproach. Furthermore, 
he was decidedly reluctant to leave his horse in strange 
hands for an indefinite period. There was not a finer 
animal in the country, and Stephen was one of those men 
who count their horses as comrades only a tithe less dear 
than their closest friends. 

No, he was damned if he would leave him to the mercies 
of that taciturn fool of an innkeeper’s son, without first 
having ascertained the full extent of his injuries and making 
sure that the man knew how to treat them. He would at 
least rest himself content at the Nag’s Head for a day or 
two to see how he fared; and—who knew ?—perhaps in the 
meantime he might get some clue to the identity of the lady 
he had seen. Surely it would not be difficult to find some- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


13 


thing in the neighborhood to distract him; he had in his 
younger days been passionately fond of the country, although 
of late years he had seen but little of it. 

H is mind made up, Stephen Burgoyne drank the re¬ 
mainder of his wine, and picked up his hat and riding-whip 
with the intention of enjoying the fine spring evening. 

But as he stepped into the outer air a loud shout arrested 
him, and he stood staring before him in blank astonishment. 



CHAPTER II 


WHEREIN STEPHEN ARBITRATES BETWIXT A VISCOUNT 
AND A TINKER 

BOUT fifty yards away to the north of the inn the 



road rose in a fairly steep incline until it disappeared 
over the crest of a hill. Coming down this slope at a break¬ 
neck pace was a travelling tinker’s cart, with the fastest- 
moving donkey between the shafts that Stephen had ever 
beheld. Seated postilion-wise astride the donkey, with his 
long legs stretching outside the shafts, rode a very elegant 
young man, attired in a fashionable coat of sage-green, 
whose cravat was so high that he could scarce move his 
head, and whose Hessian boots shone resplendent as a 


mirror. 


The din which cart and driver contrived to make between 
them was indescribable. The pots and pans with which 
the vehicle was laden clattered and clanged in a most alarm¬ 
ing manner, and every now and then some tin or iron vessel 
would escape from its moorings and precipitate itself on to 
the road with a resounding crash, where, as often as not 
it would bowl along on its edge behind the cart. The 
postilion, sitting well back in his uncomfortable seat a*d 
waving above his head a tasselled cane, yelled at the top of 
his voice a mixture of hunting cries and coaching objurga¬ 
tions, and the echoes resounded to cries of “Yoicks! T&lly 
Ho! Curse your perishing eyes! Hark away! Faster, you 
three-legged snail!”—until the inhabitants of an adjacent 
rookery, peaceably engaged in preparing themselves for 


14 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 15 

slumber, rose in a black cloud over the tree-tops and added 
a thousand hoarse, angry “Caws” to the racket below. 

Away in the distance a small, gesticulating figure ran as 
fast as its legs could go in a valiant but futile endeavor 
to overtake the cart. This Stephen took to be the tinker 
himself; but, although the distressed tradesman had his 
mouth wide open and was evidently protesting with the full 
force of his lungs against the use to which his belongings 
were being put, he was quite outdone in his vocal efforts by 
the debonair postilion, for not a syllable of what he said 
reached Stephen’s ears. 

In a very short space of time the ungainly vehicle, which 
travelled first on one wheel and then on the other, and 
which was only kept from overturning by a miracle, came 
opposite the inn; and the donkey, recognizing the house as 
one at which he had never hitherto failed to halt, refused to 
create a precedent on this occasion, and suddenly stiffened 
his legs and planted all four feet rigidly on the ground. 
The impetus of the cart behind him and the abruptness of 
his stoppage caused him to skid for some yards before he 
came to a complete standstill, when, obviously none the 
worse for his unwonted exercise, he stood complacently re¬ 
garding the sprawling figure of his late rider, who had been 
pitched head foremost on to a grassy patch at the side of 
the highway. 

The unexpected and inglorious manner in which the 
postilion’s escapade had been cut short, and the apparently 
self-satisfied attitude of his late steed, made a keen and in¬ 
stantaneous appeal to Stephen’s sense of humor, and he 
put back his head and roared with uncontrollable laughter. 
Immediately the young man on the grass sat up, and, fumb¬ 
ling for his glass, which was fortunately unbroken by his 
fall, he subjected the hilarious gentleman to a haughty and 
indignant stare. Noting, however, that his silent disap¬ 
proval, far from checking the observer’s merriment, seemed 
only to increase it, he addressed him in mild and gentle tones 


16 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


which were in singular contrast to the ear-splitting yells 
in which he had but a moment ago been indulging. 

“Sir! You there! Blind me and blister me, can’t ya 
hear me, fellow? Are ya deaf, ya insolent knave? How 
dare ya laugh at me, ya bluebottle? Ya bray worse than 
that pestilent ass, ’od rot his nose and his bones! Nay, 
spike me and splinter me if ya aren’t doin’ the braying for 
the pair of ya, damme! D’ya hear me? ’Tis no use; the 
fellow is incorrigible,” he continued, with a soft sigh. “His 
blood be upon his own head; I shall be compelled to chastise 
him.” 

He fingered his right shoulder gingerly, pulled one sleeve 
of his coat round to examine the dusty cloth at the elbow, 
glanced ruefully at the soiled knees of his breeches, and, 
with a stifled groan, rose to his feet. Once upright, he 
ran his hand over his fair, curly head in a dazed manner, 
and then limped, his fists tight clenched, towards where 
Stephen awaited him. His intention was unmistakable; but 
Stephen, whose hilarity had subsided to a broad smile, 
straightened his body, which had been bent in the throes of 
laughter, and held out his hand in friendly greeting. 

“My heartiest thanks, Harry,” he cried gaily. “ ’Twas 
the most diverting incident I have witnessed for many a 
long day; I had never hoped for such entertainment here¬ 
abouts.” 

The dishevelled young dandy gazed at him blankly for 
a moment, and then broke forth again in his gentle voice: 
“Pink me and perish me if it isn’t Stephen Burgoyne! How 
are ya, Steve? Most infernal disappointing, though, to 
find I know ya, what? Had hoped for a pretty mill when 
I heard ya laughing. Bumped my head when that Satanic 
ass pitched me; made my vision a bit dim, what?—and I 
didn’t recognize ya. But I think ya owe me a round or two 
for all that amusement. Eh? What d’ya say now, Steve?” 

“I say no, thank you, Harry. I’m grateful for the spec¬ 
tacle, but I’m not going to pay you for it by fighting you 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


17 


just now. But ’twas a gallant progress you were making, 
and worthy of your talent for originality—though methinks 
the donkey had the better of it in the end.” 

“Aye, perdition take him, methinks so, too,” he replied, 
working his shoulder slowly up and down to make sure that 
no bones were broken. “He bubbled me neatly just as I 
wasi beginning to enjoy myself.” 

But at this moment the little tinker appeared before 
him, spent and breathing heavily, but with the light of 
battle shining from fierce eyes. 

“Put ’em up, me buck, and put ’em up slick,” he cried, 
“else I’ll lam ye one. I’ll spile yer beauty for ye, I will— 
aye, an’ yer fine clothes too, ye thievin’ scallywag! Come on 
now, if ye don’t want me to lam ye one right on yer ugly 
nose.” 

The young man eyed him through his uplifted monocle 
as he might have eyed an angry, buzzing fly. “ ’Pon my 
soul and honor, Steve, the fellow wants to fight me!” he 
drawled, in slow astonishment. “Now, if he were six 
inches taller and six inches wider I should be most happy 
to oblige him, but he’s too small to hit, what?” 

“Too small, am I?” yelled the tinker, fairly dancing 
with rage. “I’m big enough to eat your sort, I am, you long 
bean-pole you. I could bre’kfus off three like you, I could, 
wivout sp’iling me appetite”—and he sprang forwards, 
fists uplifted, with the evident intention of totally annihil¬ 
ating the man who had laid sacrilegious hands on his 
beloved donkey. 

But Stephen’s hand shot out and seized him by the shoulder 
before he could strike a blow. “Come, my friend, there’s 
no call for violence,” he said, so pleasantly that the tinker 
hesitated and looked up at his smiling face doubtfully. 
“You are exhausted from your run, and doubtless thirsty; 
what do you say to stepping indoors and sampling the 
landlord’s ale with me?” 

“Aye, I’m thirsty all right; I could drink a barrel, I 


18 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


could, swelp me!” agreed the tinker. “But I ain’t a-goin’ 
to ’ave no ale till I’ve settled wiv this ’ere cove, I ain’t. He 
stole me donkey, ’e did, and made ’im gallop as ’e ain’t 
never done afore. The pore thing won’t never recover 
from it, never; why, I ain’t seen ’im even trot more’n ’arf 
a dozen times since I got ’im three years ago, let alone gallop 
like a blood mare.” 

Stephen laughed. “Nonsense; your donkey is none the 
worse for his exercise,” he said. “Look at him; he is 
perfectly happy and undistressed, and I’ve no doubt he feels 
highly pleased with himself at the clever way in which he 
got rid of his rider.” 

The anger disappeared from the tinker’s brow, and he 
grinned with satisfaction. “Aye, ’e knows a thing or two, 
does Adam,” he said, gazing at the donkey with eyes full 
of affection. “ ’E ain’t travelled all over England wiv me 
for nothink, not likely ’e ain’t. But becos’ Adam give this 
’ere cove wot he deserved, that don’t settle my grudge again’ 
this ’ere cove, it don’t,” he concluded obstinately. 

“Then come inside and settle it there. You can each of 
you give me your version of what occurred, and I’ll give 
you my opinion of what ought to be done.” 

Without waiting for a reply, Stephen turned and led the 
way into an empty public room to the left of the hall, 
followed in very leisurely fashion by the young dandy. The 
tinker, fearful lest his enemy should attempt to escape, took 
it upon himself to bring up the rear, and within a minute or 
two the three men were seated round a small table engaged 
in quenching their respective thirsts. That of the tinker was 
evidently considerable, for he emptied his pint tankard 
without drawing breath, and had disposed of a good half 
of the contents of another before he sat back in his seat in 
readiness for the discussion. 

“Now, my friend, as you appear to be the aggrieved party, 
let us have your tale first,” said Stephen, as solemnly as 
though he were sitting in judgment in the High Court. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


19 


“Right ye are; ’ere goes, sir. About a quarter of an 
hour since, me an’ Adam was a-restin’ at the top o’ that ’ere 
’ill up the road, us ’aving been walking all this blessed day, 
and bein’ near paralyzed wiv that blisterin’ climb at the 
end of it. Ornerally we shouldn’t ’ave stopped there, not 
when there was a pub in sight; but I remembered suddink 
as I ’ad a pan as ’ad a little ’ole in it, and I thought I’d 
better mend it afore I got into Bolderburn, for chance as 
anybody ’appened to take a fancy to that ’ere pertic’ler pan. 
These ’ere north-country folk is very perverse, d’ye see, 
and they alius arsks for somethink as ye ’aven’t got, or else 
they falls in love wiv the only thing on yer cart as ain’t 
perfeck, an’ won’t be satisfied wiv nothink else. An’ yer 
daresn’t sell ’em anythink as isn’t perfeck; if they don’t 
find out as it’s not as it should be afore ye’ve gone, they 
waits for ye cornin’ again, an’ then if ye gets off wiv nothink 
worse’n a broken ’ead—why, ye’re lucky. All o’ which 
makes it ’ard for honest tradesmen, sir. Did ye ever ’ear 
what ’appened to Jos Winterbottom, ’im as they used to 
call Lucky Jos afore he took to bein’ a cut-purse an’ got 
’isself transported ?” r 

“No, I can’t say that I have heard the story,” replied 
Stephen, thoroughly enjoying himself. 

“I’m surprised at that, sir; ’e wus a great man wus Jos, 
an’ I didn’t think as there wus anybody as ’adn’t ’eard ’ow 
’e sold Daft Sarah a kettle. Jos peddled these parts afore 
I took over ’is round an’ one day, about eight or nine year 
ago, ’e stopped at a wayside cottage on the edge o’ the 
Yorkshire moors. Poppin’ ’is ’ead inside the door, ’e axed 
nice an’ perlite—’e wus alius very perlite, was Jos—if there 
wus anythink wanted in the way o’ pots or pans. Jos ’ad 
called at that cottage on every journey for years, an’ ’ad 
never sold nothink; but ’e wus a persistent feller, wus Jos— 
one o’ them coves as they calls optumists— an’ ’e wus never 
discouraged, an’ made a p’int o’ calling on everybody as 
wouldn’t buy, ’im ’aving the notion as ’e wus bound to 


20 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


sell ’em somethink if ’e waited long enough. An’ sure 
enough, on this pertic’ler day Sarah come out an’ said as 
she wus needin’ a kettle. Jos grinned with triump’, an’ 
told ’er as ’e ’ad the finest collection o’ kettles as ever 
wus seen. ’E showed ’er big kettles, little kettles, an’ 
medium kettles, but Sarah wus hard to please an’ wouldn’t 
’ave none o’ ’em. Sarah wus a little old woman well over 
seventy, wiv a face as lined an’ w'rinkled as a shrivelled 
apple, an’ folks reckoned as she wus daft; but if she wus 
daft it wus a rum sort o’ daftness. Anyway, this time she 
’ad set ’er ’eart on a copper kettle, an’ nothink else would 
suit ’er. Now, Jos ’ad only one copper kettle on ’is cart, 
an’ that ’ad ’ad its spout broke orf. O’ course, it ’ad bin 
mended, but Jos wus a bit too full o’ ale when ’e did it, 
an’ it still leaked a bit. But as Sarah wanted a copper 
kettle Jos perduced fehis article, an’ Sarah at once fell in 
love wiv it. Jos, seeing as the wind wus blowin’ favorable 
an’ reckonin’ on Sarah’s daftness, said promp’ as it wus the 
best kettle outside London; an’ what wiv ’is oily tongue an’ 
Sarah’s ’eart bein’ set on copper, it wus not long afore ’e ’ad 
sold it for twice as much as it wus worth, an’ ’e wus on ’is 
way rejoicin’, so to speak.” 

“Now, stap me and strike me if I didn’t think ya were 
going to state ya case against me, and here ya go giving a 
lecture on confounded kettles, damme,” interposed the 
enemy, with a yawn. “Why don’t ya tell Mr. Burgoyne 
what I did to ya’ beastly donkey, what?” 

“Lor’ love me boots! ain’t I a-tellin’ of ’im?” cried the 
tinker indignantly. “It’s me as is doin’ the speechifyin’ 
just now, me buck, an’ I’ll thank ye to keep yer tongue still 
till ye get yer turn.” 

“You are ruled out of order, Harry,” said Stephen 
solemnly. “Proceed, sir.” 

“Where wus I? Oh, yes, I know’. Jos, bein’ a leary 
cove, didn’t go nigh Sarah for over twelve months, but 
one fine spring mornin’ ’e thought ’e’d risk it. So ’e stops 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


21 


’is cart, an’ shoves ’is face round the door all merry an’ 
bright as usual, but afore ’e could say a word somethink ’it 
’im an orful wallop right on the top o’ the ’ead, an’ down ’e 
goes unconscious on the floor. ’E found out arterwards 
that it was Sarah ’erself as ’ad ’it ’im wiv the copper kettle 
*e ’ad sold ’er. Next thing she did wus to get a brawny 
young feller as wus working close by to pick Jos up an’ 
throw ’im into the ditch, an’ then she dropped a few pebbles 
inside the kettle an’ tied it to ’is donkey’s tail. Not content 
wiv that, she gave that pore donkey two or three cuts wiv a 
hazel switch, though V ’adn’t done ’er no ’arm. Naterally, 
that set ’im orf trottin’, an’ when ’e moved, them pebbles 
began to rattle in that kettle in a unnateral sort o’ way. 
The donkey, ’im bein’ a nervouser animal nor usual, was 
skeered, an set orf down the road ’ell-for-leather, as if ole 
Nick wus arter ’im, goin’ faster and faster till ’e disappeared 
entire in a cloud o’ dust.” 

“And what did Jos do?” enquired Stephen, as the speaker 
paused. 

“When Jos come to ’is senses, ’e found a lump on ’is 
’ead as big as a duck-egg. At first ,’e wus minded to go an’ 
tell Sarah wot ’e thought of ’er, but ’e wus a wise cove, 
wus Jos, an’ ’e knowed as a man don’t stand no charnce 
in a argyment wiv a woman. So arter cussin’ a bit to 
’isself, ’e set orf arter ’is donkey, ’im bein’ pretty sure as 
that ’ere animal wasn’t likely to turn back but would keep 
straight forrard. But ’e didn’t catch up wiv ’im till ’e ’ad 
pegged it near ten miles; an’ it’s my opinion as ’e wouldn’t 
never ’ave seed that ’ere donkey again if it ’adn’t been as 
the near wheel o’ the cart ’it up again’ a tree, an’ come orf. 
It’s an ’ard world for an honest tradesman is this, sir.” 

The tinker leaned back in his seat, and, with an air of 
complacence, emptied his beer mug. He seemed to have 
completely forgotten the incident which he had been origin¬ 
ally asked to describe, and Stephen, noting his friend’s 


22 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


growing impatience, thought it time to remind him of the 
point at issue. 

“Such information as you have imparted, sir, is of un¬ 
doubted interest,” he said, with an air of gravity widely at 
variance with the mirth in his eyes. “But perhaps you will 
state precisely what is your quarrel with this gentleman 
here.” 

“Oh, ’im!” said the tinker contemptuously. “Well, as 
I said afore, there wus me a-mending of a pan an’ there wus 
Adam a-eatin’ of the ’edge all peaceful an’ ’appy, when up 
comes this ’ere cove lookin’ as innercent as a hangel from 
’eving, an’ sez, pat as you please, ‘A fine evenin’, me man.’ 
‘Aye, it is an’ all,’ sez I; ‘never see a finer, sir, not for 
spring,’ I sez. ‘An’ what’s that yer doin’ ?’ sez ’e, cockin’ ’is 
glass at me, ’im bein’ a bit near-sighted, I reckon. ‘I’m 
a-mendin’ of a pan, sir,’ sez I. ‘A pan?’ sez ’e. ‘Aye, a pan,’ 
sez I. ‘An’ what the dooce are you doin’ that for ?’ he arsks. 
‘The thing ain’t worth mendin’ by the look of it,’ he sez. 
Now, I took that ’ere remark as bein’ personal, ’im a-dis- 
paridgin’ of me wares when ’e didn’t know nothink about 
’em. So I ups on me feet, an’ looks ’im in the eye fierce 
an’ threatenin’, an’ I sez, ‘By the Lord ’Arry, I’ll show ye 
whether it’s worth mendin’ or not!’ But afore I could 
say another word he ups wiv ’is cane an’ pokes it in me 
stummick an’ gives me a shove, an’ down I goes back’ard’s 
through the ’edge into the field be’ind. Then, quicker’n 
I can tell ye, ’e throws ’is legs acrost pore Adam’s back, 
an’ ’e sez, ‘You are the most insolent knave as I ever seed 
an’ yer donkey is too fat. So I’m a-goin’ to give ’im a bit o’ 
exercise, just to show ye what ’e can do when ’e’s ’andled 
proper, an’, ’appen you’ll be a bit more perlite next time ye 
meets me.’ Wiv that, ’e catches Adam a wallop wiv ’is 
stick like as the pore moke never ’ad afore, yells like a 
’eathen cannibile, an’ away they goes down the ’ill wiv me 
arter ’em. Me wares is spread all over the road for nigh 
a quarter of a mile back; it fair broke me ’eart to see ’em 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


23 


gettin’ scattered like that ’ere, sir, swelp me it did! An’ 
what I wants to know is, what call ’ad this ’ere cove to 
sneak me cart an’ Adam? I spoke ’im fair an’ proper, I 
did—though I did get a bit ’ot when ’e disparidged of me 
pan as I wus mendin’. It were a low trick ’e done if ye 
arsks me, sir, a low trick on an honest tradesman; never 
seed a lower-” 

But the fit of laughter which Stephen had been manfully 
controlling would no longer be denied, and peal after peal 
rang from his lips and resounded through the room. The 
tinker paused in astonished indignation, and the young 
exquisite banished his langour in order to voice his disap¬ 
proval of the undignified manner of the arbitrator. 

“Gad, Steve, ya are doocid hilarious!” he said reprov¬ 
ingly. “Methinks ya’ sense of humor is unduly keen 
today, though damme if I can see what there is to laugh 
at. Expect it’s the spring that’s affecting ya.” 

“I find the whole affair mighty amusing, Harry,” gasped 
Stephen, in no way abashed by his friend’s remarks. 

“Do ya indeed now? Well, I don’t,” said the other 
acidly. “How would you like to hear ya’ name used as 
an oath by a dirty little pan-mender?” 

“Who’re ye callin’ a dirty little pan-mender?” cried the 
tinker excitedly. “Ye’re arskin’ for it, ye are, me buck, an’ 
if it wasn’t for this gent, who ’as app’inted of ’isself to be 
judge, ye’d get it too, swelp me! Look ’ere, sir,” he con¬ 
tinued, turning an earnest face to Stephen, “this cove’s a 
liar when ’e sez as ’ow I wus a-usin’ of ’is name as a cuss- 
word.” 

“But I don’t see how he could be,” objected Stephen 
quickly, silencing his friend, who was about to take excep¬ 
tion to the tinker’s epithet, with a wave of his hand. “You 
admitted it yourself just now.” 

“I admitted it!” echoed the tinker in amazement. “Well, 
that’s a good ’un, that is! Why, blow me tight if I knows 



24 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


’is bloomin’ name. I ain’t never set eyes on ’im afore this 
arternoon, let alone ’eard ’is tally.” 

“Which is just as I thought,” declared Stephen calmly. 
“You were ignorant of my friend’s, name, but you used it 
none the less, albeit unwittingly. Let me enlighten you. 
The gentleman who rode your donkey, and to whose quali¬ 
ties as a rider your donkey objected with unqualified suc¬ 
cess, is Lord Alverford, and his first name chances to be 
Harry. Hence, when you used the term ‘By the Lord 
Harry’ he took it as a personal affront. Have I got it 
right, Harry?” 

“Perfectly right, Steve. Thought he was trying to smoke 
me, b’jove!” 

“So you w'ill see, sir, that my friend had a grievance,” 
said Stephen to the tinker. “But nevertheless I rule that he 
had no right to make off with your cart in the way he did, 
and he must reimburse you for the damage done to your 
pots and pans and for his ride on your donkey. So I give 
judgment against him for two guineas, to be paid on the 
instant.” 

“But, blind me and blister me, Steve! ya haven’t heard 
my version of the matter,” objected Lord Alverford, though 
somewhat half-heartedly. “Ya are a poor judge, ’pon my 
soul and honor. Not that I object to paying two guineas; 
’tis the principle of the thing, what?” 

“Principle fiddlesticks!” retorted Stephen rudely. “You 
had more than two guineas’ worth of fun, and ’tis cheap at 
the price. Are you satisfied with my decree?” he asked of 
the tinker. 

But the tinker was too overcome to make reply. He sat 
staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the young aristo¬ 
crat, as if the latter were some peculiar and wonderful kind 
of being hitherto unknown to science, and he kept gulping 
noisily in a vain endeavor to find speech wherewith to 
express his feelings. Stephen, noting his difficulty, untied 
the reluctant tongue by asking him if he would partake of 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


25 


another tankard of ale, but the honest tradesman could not 
utter a word beyond ‘‘Thank ye kindly, sir,” until half the 
beer had disappeared down his throat. Then he sighed 
deeply, and said in an awed whisper: 

“D’ye mean to tell me—honest now, sir—as that ’ere 
cove is a reel live lord ?” 

“I do indeed,” replied Stephen gravely. 

“Lor’ love me boots, who’d ever ’ave thought it?” breathed 
the tinker. “A real, live lord a-ridin’ of my Adam, an’ 
me cussin’ ’im black in the face! Swelp me!” The tinker 
paused to collect his thoughts, but not for an instant did he 
remove his fascinated gaze from the pleasant, rather bored 
face of his former enemy. “An’ did I ’ear ye aright when 
ye said as ’e wus a-goin’ to pay me a couple o’ guineas for 
them things as got broke when ’e was ridin’ down the ’ill ?” 

“You did.” 

The tinker gulped, and proceeded, albeit with obvious 
ruefulness, to justify his description of himself as an honest 
tradesman. “They weren’t never worth anythink like as 
much as that, sir,” he said sadly. “If ye was to say ten 
bob now, or”—the tinker gulped again—“or even maybe 
seven an’ sixpence, I shouldn’t have no cause for grumblin’, 
for, to tell the truth, most o’ them utensils”—the tinker 
spoke the word with conscious pride in his erudition—“ain’t 
really broke in the strick sense o’ the word. They’re only 
a bit dinged, as ye might say, an’ an hour or two’s work’ll 
soon make ’em near as good as new.” 

“That may be, my friend; but you have forgotten the 
indignity put upon your donkey. My judgment must 
stand,” declared Stephen, with grave finality. 

Without further protest Lord Alverford took out his 
purse, then pushed three golden coins across the table to¬ 
wards the tinker. “There y’are, my man,” he said lazily. 
“Two guineas for the fine, and one guinea for ya to drown 
ya’ animosity in ale and to pay for an extra feed for Adam. 


26 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

Ya’ donkey is dooced knowing and deserves it, perish me if 
he don’t!” 

Slowly a smile began to dawn in the tinker’s eyes, and 
grew until his face literally beamed with satisfaction and 
pleasure. He picked up the coins and tied each one 
separately in a knot in a large and not over-clean hand¬ 
kerchief of flaring yellow, which he placed carefully in an 
inside pocket next his shirt. 

“I thanks ye very kindly, gentlemen both,” he said, 
touching his eyebrow with the forefinger of his right 
hand. “There ain’t no malice bore by me for yer ridin’ 
of Adam, yer lordship—lor’ love me boots, no, not a 
hatom! I takes it as a compliment as ’e ’as bin rode by a 
reel, live lord, an’ so will Adam when I tells ’im.” 

“Now, pink me and perish me! ya, damme, what?” 
cried his lordship in amazement. 

“Why, o course ’e will!” asserted the tinker, equally 
amazed that such a question should be asked. “Adam 
un’erstands ev’ry word as I sez to ’im—in fack, ’e’s a sight 
easier to make un’erstand than a lot o’ ’umans as I could 
tell of. An’ ’e’ll be as proud as Punch when I tells ’im 
this ’ere. Ye see, yer lordship, them guineas as you’ve 
paid me gives me an’ Adam a big leg-up as honest trades¬ 
men*. they does.” 

“And how is that, pray?” 

“Well, I’ll now be able to put a sign on me cart, ‘Pater- 
nized by the nobility,* I shall,” said the tinker triumphantly, 
“though I reckon as I’ll ’ave to prove it wiv me fists 
to one or two o’ them doubtin’ Thomases as I meets 
reg’lar,” he added thoughtfully. 

The young lord suddenly abandoned his lounging atti¬ 
tude, and sat upright in his chair. “Can ya read, my man?” 
he asked. 

“Aye, that I can; printed books an’ ornery writin’, too,” 
declared the tinker proudly. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 27 

“And what’s ya’ name?” queried his lordship, pulling 
the bell rope which hung close by his chair. 

“Will’um Noblett, yer lordship, usually called ‘Bill the 
Tinker’ for short.” 

Stephen sat in amused astonishment as his friend ordered 
the maid who answered his summons to bring pens, ink, 
and paper, and watched in silence as that usually indolent 
young man wrote diligently, though somewhat laboriously, 
a note which was shortly handed to him for his approval, 
and which ran as follows: 

To all whom it may concern. 

“Take notice that this is to certify that I have traded 
with William Noblett—commonly known as ‘Bill the 
Tinker,’ and the owner of that very remarkable and 
sagacious ass Adam—and declare him to be a reliable 
and honest tradesman. 

“Alverford, 

“Viscount.” 

The feelings with which the tinker read this testimonial 
fiom his latest customer can better be imagined than 
described. He sat like one in a dream, his bewildered gaze 
travelling backwards and forwards from the smiling faces 
before him to the piece of paper in his hand. At length 
he bent his head towards Stephen, and said in a whisper: 

“Would ye mind, sir, just lammin’ me one be’ind the ear 
—a good ’ard ’un, too?” 

“What for?” asked Stephen, surprised by the singular 
request. 

“Just so as I can be sure as I’m awake,” replied the 
tinker. “All this ’ere don’t seem nateral no’ow, it don’t; 
it’s again’ reason for a tinker to ’ave dealin’s wiv a reel, 
live lord, an’ I reckon that in a minute or two I shall open 
me peepers to find as I’ve fell asleep under the ’edge an’ 
the rain’s cornin’ down ’evings ’ard.” 


28 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Oh, I can vouch for your being awake,” laughed Stephen. 
“This is no dream, my friend.” 

The tinker finished off his ale, wiped his mouth with the 
back of his hand, and rose to his feet in preparation for 
departure. Once again he read his testimonial through ere 
he hid it reverently away from the prying eyes of men; then, 
with an awkward attempt at a bow, he said solemnly: 

“This ’ere’s a great day for me, yer lordship an’ sir. 
There ain’t a tinker from ’ere to Kent as ’as got it wrote 
out fair an’ proper as ’e is paternized by the nobility like 
what I ’ave—no, an’ if ye arsks me there never wus one, 
neither, not even Lucky Jos ’isself. I thanks ye ’earty, I 
does, yer lordship, an’ you as well, sir, an’ I bids ye a very 
good evenin’,” and the gratified tinker took his leave, mutter¬ 
ing to himself as he went, “Paternized by the nobility! 
William Noblett, ’Ardware Dealer, paternized by the nobil¬ 
ity an’ gentry. Lor’ love me boots! who’d ever ’ave thought 


CHAPTER III 


WHEREIN LORD ALVERFORD UNFOLDS A MADCAP PLOT 

“X\T HAT brings ya to Bolderburn, Steve?” enquired 
▼ ▼ Lord Alverford, as the door closed behind the 
tinker. 

Mr. Burgoyne flushed slightly; but this unwonted dis¬ 
play of confusion passed unnoticed by his companion. 

“I have been up to Kendal to see my uncle, who is sick, 
and I am on my way back to London/’ he replied, with 
well-assumed carelessness. “My plaguey horse went lame 
about half a mile away from here, and I was obliged to 
seek the nearest inn.” 

“And why, i’ gad’s name, didn’t ya come to me?” asked 
his lordship, in an offended tone. “Ya had to pass my gates 
to get here, for the Gables lies scarce ten minutes away to 
the north. Nay, blister me, Steve! but I take that un¬ 
kindly of ya, ’pon my soul and honor I do.” 

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I did not know where I was until 
I enquired of the smith. Even then I confess that, though 
the name of the place seemed familiar to me, I clean forgot 
that ’twas hereabouts you lived. And you scarce can blame 
me for that; I always associate you with London, and I 
should never have expected to find you rusticating here in 
any case.” 

“No, I suppose not,” agreed his lordship thoughtfully. 
“Damme if we aren’t both a bit out of our latitude, as it 
were, what? But now ya are here, are ya going to stay, 
or are ya in a hurry to be off?” 

The question was unwelcome to Stephen. He had asked 
29 


30 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


it of himself a dozen times since his arrival without coming 
to a decision, and it irritated him not a little to find him¬ 
self unable to make up his mind. This irresolution was 
foreign to him, and he did not like it, but he felt incapable of 
making a definite statement at the moment. 

“I don’t quite know what to do, Harry,” he said. “I 
am loth to leave my horse unreservedly in the hands of that 
loutish fellow of an ostler, for I am overfond of him, and he 
is valuable. Yet I know not how I shall pass the time if I 
stay here; I don’t suppose such entertainment as you gave 
me a while ago is a daily occurrence. Also, I ought to be 
in town within the week, and altogether ’tis a pestilent 
situation.” 

Lord Alverford smiled quizzically. “ ’Tis a new mood 
for you, methinks, Steve, this willy-nilly one,” he opined. 
“Ya are usually so dashed sure of ya’self, and ya’ mind is 
made up on the instant. So what do ya say to letting me 
decide for ya, eh? I can promise ya a pretty little adven¬ 
ture such as ya couldn’t hope to get in London, and ya’ll 
enjoy it mightily, I know ya will, b’jove.” 

“First I must know if your pretty little adventure appeals 
to me,” said Stephen cautiously, knowing the proclivities 
of his friend and the hare-brained escapades upon which he 
regularly embarked with joyous enthusiasm. 

“Gad! ’twill delight ya, ’pon my soul and-” 

He broke off abruptly as the door opened to admit a tall, 
magnificently proportioned man of about thirty-five, whose 
dark, handsome face was marred by a cruel and sensual 
mouth. The newcomer was elegantly, almost foppishly, 
dressed, and was quite as much out of place in his present 
surroundings as was Lord Alverford himself. His bold, 
steel-grey eyes rested at once on Stephen’s broad back, and, 
judging by the frown which promptly gathered between his 
heavy brows, it was plain that he recognized it, and that 
he was ill-pleased to see it. But the frown disappeared as 
rapidly as it had come, and when Stephen turned his head 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 31 

to see who had invaded their privacy his look of enquiry was 
met by a polite and innocuous smile. 

“Dash me, Randolph, but I had clean forgot ya,” cried 
Alverford, as the newcomer advanced. “Sit in that chair 
there—but ya had better dust it first, for ’twas lately oc¬ 
cupied by a tinker, and he was a thought travel-stained, 
b’jove! Steve, ya know Sir Randolph Gorst, methinks, eh?” 

“Sir Randolph and I have met before,” returned Stephen, 
with a somewhat distant inclination of his head in the bar¬ 
onet’s direction. 

“Of course we have,” responded Sir Randolph with well- 
feigned warmth, as he seated himself. “Everybody who is 
anybody in London knows Ruck Burgoyne.” 

A shadow of annoyance swept across Stephen’s face. “I 
am not enamored of the nickname, sir, and would fain for¬ 
get it,” he said quietly. “My friends are charitable enough 
to remember my distaste for it.” 

“Ah, you must forgive me, Mr. Burgoyne; I had no idea 
that it misliked you,” said Sir Randolph easily, but redden¬ 
ing under the rebuke. “For myself, I should be proud 
of the title, standing, as it does, for all that is most vener¬ 
ated in the world of fashion and sport. ’Twas your pop¬ 
ularity that gave it to you; and I, for one, find popularity 
a sweet and toothsome diet.” 

“Tastes differ, Sir Randolph. Popularity is a fruit which 
is sometimes delicious, but its seed is strangely unreliable. 
In some it breeds hatred, in many it breeds malice, and in 
most it breeds envy; and I do not find that the fruit itself 
compensates for its offspring.” 

“Yet it would surely not please you to see your popular¬ 
ity wane, Mr. Burgoyne.” 

“P faith, ’twould cause me no regret if it disappeared 
entirely, sir. Its departure would at least enable me to 
discover which are my true friends and which but syco¬ 
phantic parasites, and at the same time I should be relieved 


32 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


of the burden of the many onerous duties which fall to the 
lot of the popular idol but which give him no pleasure.” 

“You speak bitterly, Mr. Burgoyne. And yet you must, 
in the first instance, have sought popularity, otherwise you 
could scarce occupy the position in the social firmament 
which you now adorn,” said Sir Randolph Gorst, with a 
scarcely perceptible sneer. 

“I admit it,” returned Stephen, ignoring the veiled taunt. 
“I was young when I first found myself in London, and I 
was dazzled by its pomp and glitter. It seemed to me 
that no man could have a nobler ambition than to attain 
to the heights to which Brummel had attained, and from 
that day forward I set myself to scale those heights. Well, 
my endeavors met with moderate success, and my ambition 
was realized long ago, but meseems the prize was not worth 
the winning. However, my views can scarce interest you, 
Sir Randolph.” 

“On the contrary, they interest me mightily. London 
would be vastly surprised to hear such words from its Mr. 
Burgoyne, and I vow ’twill never credit me when I retail 
them.” 

“There is little purpose in your retailing them, sir,” said 
Stephen coldly. 

“Ah! Then am I to take it that they are not sincere?” 
There was offence in Sir Randolph’s tone, and his lip curled 
in a manner which caused Lord Alverford some alarm and 
not a little -wonderment. 

“Insincerity is not one of my many failings, Sir Ran¬ 
dolph,” returned Stephen haughtily. “I am in the habit 
of saying what I mean and meaning what I say.” 

“Now, singe me and scorch me! surely you two are not 
going to quarrel about nothing,” interposed Harry pettish¬ 
ly. “Ya don’t understand Steve, Randolph, and ya are 
always plaguey tactless, b’jove, ya are indeed! For goodness* 
sake change the subject, before ya get to blows. Nay, *pon 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


33 


my soul and honor, I’ll change it for ya. Are ya going 
to join me in that little project I told ya about, Steve?” 

“But you didn’t tell me about it, Harry,” returned 
Stephen, his cold expression dissolving in a smile. 

“Didn’t I, b’jove? Then I’ll tell ya now. Randolph 
knows all about it; he’s in it, too. D’ya know Colonel 
Oldfield?” 

“Never heard of him.” 

“Well, ya know Lady Averill Stapleton then?” 

“I don’t.” 

“What! D’ya mean to say that ya don’t know Lady 
Averill, the most adorable, delightful, perverse creature that 
ever drove man to distraction? Gad, Steve, ya haven’t 
lived, ’pon my soul and honor ya haven’t!” 

“You are enthusiastic, Harry,” said Stephen, smiling. 
“But you will doubtless remember that you have told me 
exactly the same thing of at least a dozen other women. 
You were ever susceptible, particularly to the immature, 
schoolgirl type of beauty.” 

“Schoolgirl! Immature!” ejaculated Lord Alverford in¬ 
dignantly. “Nay, damme, Steve, ya’re wrong this time, 
b’jove! Lady Averill is twenty-five, and she has the shape 
of a goddess and the face of a—of a—oh, perish me, Ran¬ 
dolph, tell him what she is like; ya’ tongue is cleverer than 
mine.” 

“She is certainly a remarkably handsome woman,” said 
Sir Randolph, with a gleam in his steel-grey eyes that made 
Stephen long to strike him. “She is ripe as an autumn 
plum just ready to fall, and desirable as nectar to a thirsty 
man. ’Twill be a lucky man who wins her, for though she 
is as yet virginal as the snows, there is in her a font of love 
and loveliness that will never cease to flow for him who 
awakes her heart, and which will thrill and delight him 
to the exclusion of all other passions for many a long day.” 

“There, Steve; are ya satisfied now?” cried his lordship. 

“I am satisfied that the Lady Averill’s charms are of a kind 


34 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


that make a strong appeal to Sir Randolph Gorst,” replied 
Stephen drily. “ ’Tis strange that I have never met her, or 
at least heard of her, if she be as beautiful as you say, Harry.” 

“Not so strange as you might suppose, Mr. Burgoyne,” 
said Sir Randolph, before Lord Alverford could reply. 
“Lady Averill chances to dislike London, and never visits 
it unless she is compelled. Even then, she makes her stay 
as short as she can and attends but few social functions. 
She professes a profound contempt for the town’s beaux, 
and says she cannot believe that those simpering, posturing 
popinjays—her words, sir, not mine—are real men.” 

“And yet I find two of those same beaux, those postur¬ 
ing popinjays—her words, sir, not mine—apparently dancing 
attendance upon her in a remote and desolate spot miles 
from anywhere,” commented Stephen blandly. 

“Now, dig me and drive me! he has us there, Randolph; 
he has, ’pon my word,” said Lord Alverford, as Sir Ran¬ 
dolph turned his head to hide his annoyance. “I admit it, 
Steve; Lady Averill is the ravishing reason why I am living 
at the Gables. Ya see, ’tis like this. Ever since my father 
died my mother has been impressing upon me at least a 
dozen times a day that ’tis high time I married and settled 
down, what? Of course, I didn’t take that seriously, 
being quite happy as I am; but she is a doocid persistent 
woman, my mother, and a few weeks ago I had a cursed 
preemptory letter from her telling me to proceed at once to 
Bolderburn to stay with her. ’Twas confounded incon¬ 
venient for me to leave town just then, for I had promised 
to race my four-in-hand to Brighton against Dandy Dick 
Venning for five hundred a side on the following Monday, 
but—well, ya know my mother, Steve, and ya will under¬ 
stand why I came north without delay, what?” 

“I think I do, Harry,” smiled Stephen. 

“Hum! I thought ya would. When I reached the 
Gables she said never a word as to why she had sent for 
me; but she was confounded gracious, and I knew there 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


35 


was trouble brewing. And the very next morning at 
breakfast—at breakfast, mark ya, at half past eight in the 
morning, b’jove, at least four hours earlier than usual for 
me, damme—she let go her broadside. ‘Alverford, my 
son,’ she said solemnly—she can be most cursed solemn, 
ya know T —‘Alverford, ya are going to be married/ ’Twas 
so doocid sudden that a piece of toast that I was eating 
went down the wrong way, and nearly choked me. ‘Madam, 
methinks someone has been bubbling ya,’ said I, when I 
had rid myself of that pestilent toast. ‘Bubbling me!’ 
she drawls, raising her eyebrows and looking at me with 
that infernal stare of hers that makes ya feel like an 
obnoxious puppy. ‘Bubbling me!’ she says again. ‘And 
pray what may that mean ?’ A staggerer that, ya’ll admit, 
what? ‘It means—well, it means smoking ya, as it were,’ 
says I, after some little thought. ‘Does it indeed?’ she 
returns, dooced sarcastic. ‘Doubtless ya’ explanation would 
be illuminating to a man of intellect, but unfortunately my 
poor woman’s brain is so dull that I am still in the dark. 
Smoking and bubbling convey naught to me. I must crave 
your filian patience and ask for further enlightenment.’ 
Well, ya know, I was floored—I was, ’pon my soul and 
honor—and I had to think confounded hard for a while. 
But at last I had it. ‘What I mean to say, mother, is that 
you have been misinformed,’ says I, rising and bowing in my 
best manner. ‘Ah! Now I understand,’ she says sweetly, 
smiling like she smiles at her dearest enemy. ‘Ya should 
really try to get into the habit of speaking English, Harry; 
’twould save ya much verbiage.’ ” 

Lord Alverford paused, and reflectively rubbed his hand¬ 
some nose. “What d’ya think of that, now, Steve?” he 
asked. 

“Methinks she had the better of it up to there,” laughed 
Stephen. “But what happened next?” 

“My lady mother was silent for awhile; then she said, 
‘Ya are laboring under a misapprehension, Henry. No- 


36 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


body informed me that you are about to marry. I decided 
that for myself/ She stopped to let her words sink in ; 
but seeing that I was incapable of speech, she went on again: 
‘I sent for ya to come here for a purpose that may or may 
not commend itself to ya, but which is nevertheless unalter¬ 
ably fixed in my mind. I have long urged ya to find for 
ya’self a wife; but as ya have persistently disregarded my 
wishes, and because I fear that ya will more likely than 
not become the prey of one of those painted town minxes, 
I have gone to the trouble of finding one for ya/ Ya 
could have knocked me down with a feather, b’jove, and 
I could only sit there and stare at her like a cursed stone 
image. ‘I do not expect any thanks from you for what I 
have done, Henry,’ she goes on, in her most syrupy tones, 
and with that same smile. ‘Ya will doubtless rebel, and 
find a thousand objections to the girl I have chosen. How¬ 
ever, I would counsel ya to save ya’ breath, for my mind is 
made up, and I will brook no opposition. Do I make myself 
perfectly clear, Henry?’ I gasped like a cursed trout on 
a river-bank, and said, hoarse as a jay: ‘Ya do, madam; 
’pon my word, ya do—in fact, dooce take me, too clear, 
b’gad! And as ya have gone to so much trouble on my 
account, perhaps ya wouldn’t mind going to a bit more and 
telling me who the unfortunate woman is, what?’ ‘Not 
at all, Henry,’ she says. ‘The girl I have chosen is in every 
way fitted to become your viscountess. She is well born, 
beautiful, and clever; and though she is far from wealthy, 
one cannot have everything, and ya have already more 
money than ya can possibly need. Also—and I rate this 
high—she is unspoiled by town life, and has never been in 
London for more than a month at a time/ I groaned 
audibly, for I pictured myself tied for life to some giggling 
country miss whose conversation would be made up of 
‘La’s’ and ‘Oh’s,’ and would go off into hysterics if she 
glimpsed a petticoat on a clothes’ line. However, I pulled 
myself together sufficiently to say, ‘Quite so, madam. She 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


37 


is doubtless a paragon of virtue, but ya omit to say who 
she is.’ Then very slowly, in her most pestilent drawl, she 
announces, ‘She is Lady Averill Stapleton. 5 55 

“Which information would doubtless ease your mind, 55 
ventured Stephen. 

“Ease my mind? Hum! Perhaps. I’m not so sure, 55 
returned Lord Alverford dubiously. “Ya see, I hadn’t 
seen Averill since she was about sixteen, and she was then 
a madcap young person, very leggy like a young colt, and 
with cursed imperious ways. But when my mother showed 
me her portrait I admit I was relieved, for she certainly 
seemed a most personable young woman—although there 
was something in her eyes and the set of her chin that made 
me think she would be plaguey capricious in double har¬ 
ness. ‘I take it that the idea meets with Averill’s approval,’ 
said I gloomily, more for something to say than aught else. 
‘That is for you to ascertain,’ returned my mother calmly. 
‘What! Ya haven’t asked her?’ I cried, confounded dis¬ 
mayed. ‘Most certainly not,’ she replied, eyeing me as 
though she thought me a lunatic. ‘I have found ya a bride, 
and surely, Henry, ya do not expect me to do your love- 
making for ya as well ?’ ‘But suppose she refuses me,’ I 
objected. ‘Refuse ya she certainly will if she be the girl 
I take her for,’ returned my mother, with the utmost com¬ 
placence. I was out of my depth, Steve—women are be¬ 
yond me—but methought this sounded hopeful. ‘Well, 
that will settle it,’ I said brightly. But I had made a mis¬ 
calculation somewhere, b’jove, for she snapped at me like a 
terrier, curse me if she didn’t. ‘Settle it, ya ninny,’ she 
cried. ‘Of course it won’t settle it. Don’t ya know that 
no woman worth the name takes a man at the first time of 
asking? Ya will continue to ask her in season and out of 
season until she changes her mind.’ ‘But meseems that may 
take me weeks and weeks,’ I pleaded. ‘Doubtless it will 
take ya at least six months, but if it takes ya six years here 
ya have got to remain until ya have accomplished it,’ she 


38 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


said, in a manner that brooked no argument. And here 
I have been for over five weeks running after Averill like 
a demented mongrel, b’jove, and I am not a whit nearer than 
I was when I started, damme if I am, what?” 

He concluded his narrative with a heavy sigh, and began 
abstractedly to fill a long clay pipe which he had taken 
from the mantlepiece. His task accomplished, he sat 
gloomy and distrait in the fading twilight, looking not at 
all like the eager lover whose mistress was ‘the most ador¬ 
able, delightful, perverse creature that ever drove man to 
distraction.’ Indeed, so dismal was his expression that 
Stephen thought fit to rally him on it. 

“Tell me, Harry, are you in love with the Lady Averill?” 
he asked. 

His lordship looked up sharply, and then frowned. “In 
love with her!” he repeated. “Well—er—now—perish me 
—why, of course I’m in love with her, damme! ’Twas 
a foolish question to ask, Steve; ’pon my soul and honor it 
was,” he concluded irritably. 

“I was only seeking information,” returned Stephen 
imperturbably. “But as the subject mislikes you, let 
us talk of other things. Suppose you outline the project 
you spoke of just now.” 

“Why, of course; it had quite slipped my memory,” 
said Alverford, his face brightening a little. “Though 
damme if that doesn’t also concern Averill. But no matter. 
First ya must know that Lady Averill lives not far from 
here with a fire-eating old curmudgeon of an uncle of hers— 
Colonel Oldfield, to wit. He was her legal guardian until 
she came of age, and still behaves as if he owns her, body 
and soul. He is most infernal rude to every man who looks 
at her; and as for myself—well, only four days ago he 
threatened to shoot me if I ever again set foot within his 
gates. Now, ya must admit that it makes it doocid awkward 
for me. On one side I have my mother sour as vinegar 
and curt as the devil because I don’t pay sufficient court 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


39 


to Averill, and on the other the Colonel vowing to destroy 
me if I dare to approach her. A pretty pickle, ’pon my 
soul and honor, what?” 

“Aye, *tis a difficult situation,” agreed Stephen gravely, but 
with twinkling eyes. “And how do you propose to remedy 
it?” 

“I am minded to teach the Colonel a lesson. He had the 
impudence tQ call me a pestilent peacock, a bloodless 
nincompoop, and a dozen other things equally offensive, 
b’gad; and when I told him he should swallow his words, 
he said that hard-bitten old soldiers did not fight with 
callow youths. Now, I put it to ya, Steve, could any 
grown man of twenty-seven allow such an insult to pass 
unavenged, eh?” 

“ ’Twas strong language to overlook, certainly. I should 
like to meet your Colonel, Harry; he sounds interesting.” 

“If rudeness and boorishness be interesting, then he is 
interesting indeed,” retorted the other indignantly. “How¬ 
ever, he shall pay for it ere he is much older; he will sing 
mighty small when I have finished with him, b’jove! To¬ 
morrow morning he intends to set out in his lumbering old 
coach, accompanied by Lady Averill, to visit an old friend 
of his who lives many miles from here. He has made this 
same journey two or three times since I came here, and 
although he invariably returns the same day, ’tis usually 
long past midnight when he gets back home. So I have 
thought of a plan whereby I can kill two birds with one 
stone. Not far from the ColonePs house is a cross-roads 
which he must pass on his homeward journey, and I intend 
to waylay his coach at that place. With your assistance, 
and that of Randolph here, I shall hold him up in approved 
highwayman style, b’jove, order Averill to descend, and 
then force the Colonel to continue his journey without her. 
What d’ya say to that, eh ?” 

“Do you mean to say that you are going to abduct the 
Lady Averill ?” cried Stephen incredulously. 


40 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Precisely,” replied his lordship, with a satisfied air. 

“But ’tis madness!” protested Stephen. “What do you 
propose to do with her when you have got her?” 

“Well, now, if she chances to be agreeable—as maybe 
she will, for women are plaguey romantic, ya know—I shall 
ride with her hot-foot for Gretna, b’jove! If she objects 
to that—and mark ya, she might; ya can never tell what 
the divine creatures will do—why, then, I shall just take 
her to the Gables, b’gad, put her in charge of my mother, 
and keep her there until the next morning. Ya see, Steve, 
whichever it is, I shall have worsted that cursed Colonel, 
and ’twill have been a pretty and exciting venture into 
the bargain.” 

“That it will; too exciting for me, I fear,” said Stephen 
drily. “ ’Tis the most fantastic and preposterous scheme I 
ever had presented to me, and I, for one, have no desire to 
find myself languishing in gaol. Abduction is a serious 
offence against the law, Harry; perhaps you did not think 
of that.” 

“Of course I thought of it; d’ya imagine me a fool?” 
demanded Lord Alverford petulantly. “But the law or 
its minions will not be apprised. Nobody knows aught of 
the matter except us three, and whether we succeed or fail 
there is no risk of our being recognized, for we shall be 
cloaked and masked. Damme, Steve! ya are getting 
confounded cautious, ’pon my soul and honor ya are.” 

“Maybe I am cautious, but meseems there is more in 
this than appears on the surface,” replied Stephen seriously. 
“From what you tell me, this Colonel Oldfield is scarce the 
type of man to surrender his niece without protest, and it 
appears to me that somebody may know the feel of a bullet 
inside him ere the finish of the escapade. In which event- 
matters might prove awkward for the wounded man if, as 
might well be, he were perforce left on the field of battle. 
In that case I am sure that the Colonel would not hesitate 
to hand him over to the authorities; and ’twould go hard 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 41 

with him, no matter who he chanced to be. No, Harry; 
I am not enamored of your scheme.” 

All this time Sir Randolph Gorst had sat silent, with a 
look of intense boredom on his face. He had yawned 
widely and openly during Lord Alverford’s story of his 
courtship, his only sign of interest in the conversation 
being an occasional sneer—faint, but perceptible to Stephen 
—which had passed unobserved by the young nobleman. 
Now, however, he raised his eyes to Stephen’s face and 
said indulgently: 

“Come, come, Mr. Burgoyne, ’tis a monstrous gloomy 
view you take. Naturally, you are inclined to see danger 
in this, but I can assure you that there is no risk. If there 
were, I should not have countenanced Harry’s proposal.” 

“Then why do you need my assistance?” queried Stephen 
sharply. “I should have thought two of you were enough 
for a task you regard so lightly.” 

“Ah, now you jump to the other extreme,” said Sir 
Randolph easily, with a little smile. “If there were but 
two of us, the Colonel might think it worth while to resist, 
but odds of three to one would convince him of the truth 
of the adage that discretion is the better part of valor.” 

Stephen made no reply. He sat back in his chair, and 
drummed noiselessly on the table with his fingers. His face 
betrayed nothing beyond a casual interest in the matter 
under discussion, but actually he was thinking deeply and 
rapidly. For an idea had occurred to him which put a 
different complexion on his friend’s madcap proposal—an 
idea which was disturbing and which filled him with dismay. 
Was it possible that the Lady Averill Stapleton was the 
girl who had that very day bewitched him, and whose 
beauty had compelled him, against his better judgment, 
to hark back on his tracks? The somewhat vague descrip¬ 
tion which his companions had given certainly fitted the 
fair horsewoman like a glove; and the more he thought on 
it the more improbable it seemed that there were two women 


42 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

in the neighborhood to whom Gorst’s eulogy might apply. 

His conclusion caused him to shudder inwardly. All 
along he had wondered at Sir Randolph Gorst’s presence 
in a tiny village so far removed from his usual haunts, for 
the baronet was well known to him, and Stephen was aware 
that the friendship which seemingly existed between 
him and Lord Alverford was of such very recent growth 
as to preclude all possibility of its being the reason for his 
absenting himself from London. But now it appeared 
clear as the landscape on a bright June noonday. Sir 
Randolph Gorst was here for precisely the same reason 
as Alverford—to pay court to the beautiful Lady Averill. 
And, knowing Sir Randolph’s reputation, and having seen 
that peculiar gleam in his eyes when he spoke of her, 
Stephen shuddered, as well he might. 

Gorst was notorious in town, but his notoriety was of a 
distinctly unsavory kind. He was justly reputed to be 
enormously wealthy, and he aped the manners and dress 
of the Corinthian, whilst his prodigality gave him a certain 
popularity with those who hung about the fringe of the 
Polite World. But, despite years of endeavor, he had 
not succeeded in gaining more than a very precarious 
footing in society; and for this his uncontrolled and insati¬ 
able passions were in a very great measure to blame. He 
was a libertine of the most unscrupulous order, and his 
amorous adventures had ranged from a kitchen wench to 
a foreign countess. A dead shot and absolutely fearless, 
he pursued each new object of his desire with a relentless¬ 
ness and persistence that defied opposition and disregarded 
every law of decency and honor; and more than one out¬ 
raged husband lay mouldering in the grave for his temerity 
in attempting to avenge a frail, disillusioned wife who had 
succumbed to the baronet’s pitiless wooing. For Sir Ran¬ 
dolph abandoned his mistresses with no more scruple than 
he sought them; and London, heartless as it was in the 
main, could not bring itself to receive into its inner circle 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 43 

one whose callous brutality to the unfortunate women who 
had loved him was a byword. 

And this was the man who was casting covetous eyes 
in the direction of Lady Averill Stapleton! Surely Alver- 
ford was mad to give such a one the cachet of his friend¬ 
ship, or to enlist his aid in the escapade that was toward. 
The latter savored of seeking help from a fox to catch a 
chicken, and said little for Harry’s discretion. But why 
was Sir Randolph so ready to fall in with his lordship’s 
absurd plan, and, further, why did his anxiety for its 
success drive him to the extreme course of trying to procure 
the sendees of a third party in the enterprise? He had 
arrived at no plausible explanation of these problems when 
Alverford’s gentle voice broke in upon his musings. 

“Damme, Steve! don’t ya think ya have pondered long 
enough, what?” he said, taking out his watch. “It grows 
late, and I must be off. What d’ya say, now? Will ya 
join us or won’t ya?” 

Stephen shook his head slowly. “I am sorry, Harry, but 
I fail to see the humor of it,” he said. “What fun can there 
be in causing an old man much anxiety, or in frightening a 
pretty woman well-nigh to death? An I am any judge, 
’twill not further your cause with the Lady Averill, for I 
cannot conceive that any woman of spirit will be pleased 
with such cavalier treatment. No, Harry; if you will be 
advised by me, you will abandon the idea, and that at once.” 

“Now, perish me-” began his lordship in aggrieved 

tones; but Sir Randolph interrupted him. 

“Come, Harry, say no more about it,” he said, rising 
to his feet. “Cannot you see that Mr. Burgoyne does not 
intend to have anything to do with the affair? ’Tis doubt¬ 
less the thought of that bullet he mentioned that obsesses 
his mind, and deters him from what I consider will prove 
a very pleasant diversion.” 

Stephen also rose, and looked Sir Randolph full in the 
eye. “Do you insinuate that I am afraid, sir?” he enquired, 



44 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


in a cool drawl which Alverford knew to be the herald of 
his most dangerous mood. 

“Nay, nay, Mr. Burgoyne; ’tis an ugly word,” protested 
Sir Randolph, with an enigmatical smile. “I prefer to 
put it that you are—discreet. Good day to you, sir.” 

“One moment ere you depart, Sir Randolph. Permit 
me to ask a question. Why are you so eager for the success 
of Harry’s enterprise?” 

Sir Randolph flushed darkly, and anger blazed in his eyes. 
But his voice was calm and deliberate as he answered: 

“Methought ’twas obvious. I find myself compelled 
to remain for an indefinite period in this neighborhood, 
pending the completion of a business matter connected 
with a small estate near Mansfield which I own. I have 
already been here close upon a fortnight, and I am most 
infernally bored. Hence I welcome anything that promises 
a little excitement, even such a paltry diversion as this 
which Harry proposes.” 

“Nay, curse me, Randolph, ’twas you who first proposed 
the scheme, not I,” protested Lord Alverford. “I would 
not rob ya of the honor of being its author; such a brilliant 
idea would never have occurred to me in a thousand years, 
damme if it would.” 

Alverford’s confession was as disconcerting to Gorst as 
it was illuminating to Stephen. The baronet w^as unable 
to hide his chagrin; but Stephen’s face gave no sign that 
he observed anything significant in his friend’s remarks. 
He appeared to be considering Sir Randolph’s explanation, 
and at length he spoke as if it had entirely satisfied him. 

“I understand, Sir Randolph,” he said pleasantly. 
“I fear I had overlooked the ennui that is born of enforced 
residence in the country, and methinks I also am like to 
suffer from it ere long, for I must perforce stay here awhile. 
So perhaps ’twould advantage us all if I joined in your 
frolic. After all, I am loth to spoil sport, and perhaps, 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


45 


as you opined, I am inclined to exaggerate the risk. You 
may count me in, Harry.” 

“Gad, Steve! but that’s handsome of ya, ’pon my soul it 
is,” cried his lordship, beaming delightedly. “Ya’ll enjoy it, 
I vow ya will. Ya had better come over to the Gables now, 
and stay with me; my mother is cursed fond of ya—in fact, 
ya are the only one of my friends of whom she approves, and 
she will be delighted to see ya. Ya can have ya’s things 
sent over, and we can discuss the details of tomorrow 
night in peace and comfort. What d’ya say, eh?” 

“I am afraid I shall have to refuse, Harry,” smiled 
Stephen, shaking his head. “You forget that I am a 
traveller, and, apart" from a few things in my saddlebags, 
I haven’t a rag to my name except the clothes I stand up in. 
What would Lady Alverford say if I appeared at dinner in 
buckskins and riding-boots?” 

“She would excuse ya; I’m sure she would.” 

“No, Harry, I think I had better remain where I am— 
at all events for the present. You and Sir Randolph can 
arrange matters, and tell me your plans tomorrow. In 
the meantime, I should be glad if you could loan me a 
decent mount. I shall need a horse for the venture, and 
should like to try his paces beforehand.” 

“I’ll have one sent over first thing in the morning, Steve, 
and Randolph and I will call on ya about noon. Are ya 
ready, Randolph?” 

“Ready and waiting, Harry. I congratulate you on 
your decision to join us, Mr. Burgoyne, and I trust you 
will have no cause to regret it,” said Sir Randolph blandly. 

After the two gentlemen had taken their departure, 
Stephen called for lights and a bottle of wine. He filled 
and lighted a pipe, and for a long time he sat smoking and 
staring thoughtfully into the fire which had recently been 
lighted against the chill of the spring night. He had much 
to occupy his mind; but at last the cloud disappeared from 
his brow, and he smiled. 


46 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“I think I see through you, Sir Randolph Gorst,” he 
said aloud, addressing his remarks to the face of an old 
grandfather clock which looked solemnly down upon him 
from a corner by the chimney breast. “Yes, I see through 
you, but my eyes were tardy in opening. ’Tis a clever 
game you play, I vow, and I am not surprised that Harry 
fails to understand that he is to pull the chestnuts out of 
the fire, not for himself, but for you. ’Tis you who will 
ride to Gretna with the Lady Averill, not Harry. And you 
will take her there whether she will or no, for you have no 
scruples in your dealings with women, be they good or bad. 
1 greatly fear that you are a villain, Sir Randolph Gorst, 
but I think you made a false move when you pressed me into 
your service.” 

And the benevolent old clock ticked out a reply which 
seemed to say: 

“Did he? Did he? Who knows? Watch him. 
Watch him.” 


CHAPTER IV 


SHOWS HOW EASILY COMEDY CAN DEVELOP INTO TRAGEDY 



'WO mounted men sat, cloaked and masked, on their 


X motionless steeds in the deep gloom cast by a thicket 
which bordered the highroad. Although the trees were 
not yet in full leaf, so dark was the night that at five yards 
distance the horsemen were invisible; and apart from the 
occasional ring of steel caused by one of the horses champ¬ 
ing its bit, there was nothing whatever to betray their sinister 
presence to the most vigilant of wayfarers. 

It was past midnight, and not a star was to be seen. The 
clouds hung low, with the promise of rain, and the sickle 
moon, which had yesternight shone clear from a pale sky, 
had long since sunk to rest without having once shown her 
young loveliness to the sleeping countryside. Not a breath 
of wind stirred the branches of the trees; a silence which 
could be felt brooded over everything, and intensified the 
awe-inspiring influence of the darkness. 

“Gad, Steve! ’tis a plaguey black night,” said one of 
the horsemen, instinctively lowering the natural pitch of his 
voice. 

“It is indeed, Harry,” agreed the other. “But ’tis 
so much the better for our purpose; there is less chance of 
our being recognized, and I, for one, am grateful for it.” 

“What time d’ya make it ?” asked Alverford presently. 

“I should say ’tis close upon half past twelve,” returned 
Stephen. 

“Hum! I wonder what makes Randolph so late. He 
promised to be here by twelve o’clock, and-” 


47 


48 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


But even as he spoke the muffled sound of rapidly ap¬ 
proaching hoofs fell upon his ears, and he paused, listening 
intently. The sound grew louder, and in a minute or two 
a third horseman pulled up abreast of the trysting-place 
and peered intently into the heavy shadows. 

“Hi, there!” he called softly. 

“Is that you, Sir Randolph?” asked Stephen, in a low 
voice. 

“Aye,” came back the answer, in tones which struck 
Stephen as being pleasanter than those Sir Randolph was 
wont to use. “I apologize for my tardy arrival, gentle¬ 
men,” continued the newcomer, wheeling his horse along¬ 
side Alverford’s. “I took the wrong turning in the dark¬ 
ness, and nearly failed you in consequence. However, I 
am in time, so what matter?” 

“It matters a lot, Randolph,” said Alverford sharply. 
“ ’Twas cursed careless of ya to get lost, ’pon my soul and 
honor it was. I should have thought ya could have found 
ya’ way here blindfold.” 

“So should I,” agreed the other, with a light laugh. 
“But country roads have a habit of playing one sorry 
tricks on nights like this, and I was thinking more of the 
venture than of the way that led to it.” 

His lordship grunted, and relapsed into silence. He was 
annoyed with Gorst, whose unpunctuality had caused him 
much uneasiness, and whose explanation of its cause had 
quite failed to satisfy him. His zest in the venture upon 
which he had so eagerly embarked had been slowly evap¬ 
orating ever since yesterday, when Stephen had exposed its 
weakness; and the oppressive blackness of the night, favor¬ 
able as it was to his enterprise, had adversely affected his 
spirits. Had it not been for the presence of Stephen 
Burgoyne, he would long ago have turned his horse’s head 
in the direction of home, but his pride forbade him to 
confess to his friend that he was no longer enamored of the 
task which he had set himself. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


49 


For some moments the silence remained unbroken. 
Each of the three men sat in tense expectancy, straining 
his ears to catch the first sound that might herald the 
approach of Colonel Oldfield’s carriage. But all was still 
as death; it almost seemed that Nature held her breath 
beneath the menace of Tragedy. 

Then suddenly, sharp and clear as a pistol crack, a twig 
snapped in the coppice behind them. Alverford started 
as though he had been stung, and spurred forward several 
paces before he turned and halted. Sir Randolph’s horse 
pivoted on its hind legs like an automaton, and then stood 
motionless, with its nose thrust forward towards the trees. 
Only Stephen remained unmoved. He gave no sign that 
he had noticed anything unusual, but his nerves were tin¬ 
gling, and his every sense seemed more acute than it had ever 
been before. The change in the relative position of his 
companions made it possible for him to make out Sir Ran¬ 
dolph’s faint outline, and he was surprised to note that the 
baronet held in his right hand a heavy horse-pistol. In 
addition to this, he was leaning forward in his saddle and 
gazing intently into the deep undergrowth in a fruitless en¬ 
deavor to pierce the gloom, and so businesslike was his 
attitude that Stephen instinctively formed a new and more 
flattering estimate of the man whom he had hitherto de¬ 
spised. 

The lingering seconds passed into minutes; but nothing 
further disturbed the stillness of the coppice, and at length 
Sir Randolph turned to Stephen and whispered: 

“You heard, Mr. Burgoyne?” 

“Aye, I heard,” returned Stephen, also in a whisper. “Me- 
thought a dry stick broke close at hand.” 

“And the cause?” 

“Nay, I know not the cause, Sir Randolph. But we 
have heard naught more, and I fancy we have magnified 
a perfectly natural occurrence into something supernatural.” 


50 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Sir Randolph shook his head slowly, and, although he 
could not see his face, Stephen fancied that he smiled. 

“Certainly there was nothing supernatural about it,” he 
said. “But sticks don’t usually break of their own accord, 
however dry they may be, and I should be easier in my mind 
if I felt certain that the wood harbors no stranger.” 

“Think ya not that the twig was snapped by the move¬ 
ment of some wild thing like a rat or a rabbit?” asked 
Alverford, who had again drawn close to his friends. 

“No. I opine ’twas a booted foot, stealthily but un¬ 
fortunately placed, that did the damage, and I think ’twere 
best if I made search to see if I can find the owner of the 
foot,” returned Gorst, preparing to dismount. 

“Don’t be a fool, Randolph,” urged his lordship irritably. 
“We have no light, and what the devil could ya hope to 
find in this murk? If there be anyone there, he would see 
ya long before ya could hope to see him, and ’tis precious 
little chance ya would have of laying ya’ hand on him.” 

“Harry is right,” commented Stephen. “ ’Twould be 
folly to enter the wood uncfer such conditions, as well as 
purposeless, for if someone be in hiding there you may be 
sure he is up to no good.” 

“Folly or no, I propose to make the search,” declared 
Sir Randolph resolutely. “I have no mind to be caught 
between two fires, as we might well be if-” 

He broke of! abruptly, arrested by another sound. Faint 
upon the night air came the rumble of wheels and the 
clatter of hoofs to announce the approach of a heavy vehicle, 
and in the minds of the waiting men there was no doubt 
that here at last was Colonel Oldfield’s carriage. 

“Here they come!” ejaculated Alverford, in a voice quiv¬ 
ering with excitement. 

“Aye, ’tis they, methinks,” said Sir Randolph. “Well, who¬ 
ever lurks in the wood must bide there; we have no time to 
search. We must leave that to chance, though I confess it 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 51 

mislikes me to take such a risk. To your stations, gentle¬ 
men.” 

Stephen took up his previously appointed position with 
a faint wonder at the manner in which Sir Randolph took 
it upon himself to issue orders. Singularly enough, it 
never occurred to Stephen to question his right to command, 
for the baronet’s demeanor ever since he had joined them 
had been that of the born leader of men, and showed plainly 
that he was at his best when danger was toward. Stephen 
felt that he would have no hesitation in following such a 
man wherever he might lead and he noted that Harry also 
obeyed promptly and without demur. 

At Sir Randolph’s suggestion it had been agreed between 
the conspirators that Stephen should act as spokesman 
for the party. He was unknown to both Colonel Oldfield 
and his niece, and consequently unlikely to be recognized, 
whereas it was thought that, notwithstanding their dis¬ 
guise, it was possible that if either Alverford or Gorst 
essayed the role his voice might betray him to the keen¬ 
witted old soldier. Stephen, whilst not enamored of his 
part, had admitted the force of the argument, and had, 
albeit with reluctance, consented to the arrangement. 

Thus he now placed himself some half dozen yards nearer 
to the approaching vehicle than were his companions, who 
remained side by side in readiness to overawe the Colonel 
with a show of overwhelming odds immediately the coach 
came to a standstill. As to whether they actually would 
overawe him Stephen had grave misgivings, but since yes¬ 
terday, when he consented to become a party to the scheme, 
he had voiced no further protest. 

And now he waited, pistol in hand, listening to the rumble 
of the approaching carriage. The weapon he held was 
heavy and formidable, but, in his wisdom, he had neglected 
to load it. He did not propose to shoot, no matter what 
happened; *twas a frolic they were engaged in—a foolish 
frolic certainly, but a frolic nevertheless—and he had no 


52 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


desire to spill the blood of a hardy old gentleman whom he 
had never met, but for whom he somehow felt a considerable 
admiration. 

Two pin-points of light suddenly appeared in the black¬ 
ness far down the straight road. Judging by the rapidity 
with which they increased in size, the Colonel’s coachman 
was, despite the gloom, driving at a good round pace, and 
was evidently in a hurry to reach his journey’s end and his 
bed. His horses were apparently coming along at full 
gallop, and Stephen had but little time to wait before taking 
action. 

He wheeled his horse into the middle of the road when the 
vehicle was about twenty yards away, and, standing in his 
stirrups and pointing his pistol at the dim figure of the 
coachman, he shouted at the top of his voice: 

“Halt! Halt, Isay!” 

It seemed to Stephen that the driver’s action in checking 
his horses was not quite as prompt as it might have been, 
and he was obliged to pull his mount sharply to one side to 
avoid being run down. The result was that when the coach 
finally came to a standstill he was directly opposite the off¬ 
side door. And he was further disconcerted by the fact 
that one of the occupants of the carriage thought fit to drop 
the window farthest from where he stood, for he heard 
the rattle of glass in its frame and a thud which told of a 
none-too-gentle hand manipulating the strap. 

“What in thunder are you stopping for, Sergeant?” 
roared a stentorian voice, in angry tones. 

“Highwaymen, sir,” came back laconically from the driver. 

“Highwaymen be damned,” rasped the Colonel. “Whip 
up your horses and ride ’em down, you fool.” 

“Can’t be done, sir,” replied the driver calmly. “Too 
many of ’em, sir.” 

“How many?” 

“Three, sir. A businesslike-looking lot, too.” 

By this time Stephen had ridden quietly round to the 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


53 


other window, from which the portly figure of the Colonel 
was protruding. The latter held a pistol in his right hand, 
and was trying his best to get a sight of the miscreants who 
barred his way. It was obviously his intention to open 
fire without parley, and it was fortunate for Stephen that 
the old soldier was too preoccupied to observe his approach, 
else he had assuredly been shot. 

It was certainly not the moment for ceremony, and, quick 
as thought, Stephen’s hand darted out and seized the old 
gentleman’s wrist in such a manner that the pistol fell 
harmlessly to the ground. 

The Colonel swore luridly, and turned a red and angry 
face towards his assailant. 

“Damn you, you villian!” he cried, in a voice in which 
chagrin was the dominant note. “You’ve bested me nicely, 
by Jupiter! but your triumph shall be short-lived. What 
d’ye want?” 

“I ask your pardon for my importunity, Colonel Old¬ 
field,” replied Stephen courteously. “My action was, may¬ 
hap, a trifle rough, but, as a soldier, you will agree that it 
was necessary.” 

“For the love of heaven, cut out all that nonsense, and 
get on with your trade,” cried the Colonel irritably. “D’ye 
think I want to listen to polite speeches from a dastardly 
thief, a marauding pest, at one o’clock in the morning? 
What is’t you want, you filthy scum? Money, I suppose!” 

“Your supposition is wide of the mark, sir,” returned 
Stephen imperturbably. “The Lady Averill Stapleton 
travels with you, I think.” 

“And what if she does? What the devil has that got 
to do with you?” snapped the hardy old soldier. “Are 
you after her jewels, as well as my purse, damn your eyes?” 

“I want neither the one nor the other, sir. I want the 
Lady Averill herself.” 

The Colonel gasped, and for a moment Stephen feared 
that apoplexy would claim him as a victim. Even in the 


54 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


dim light shed by the carriage lamps Stephen could see 
him grow purple in the face and roll his eyes until they 
appeared to be nothing but whites. He fought for speech 
like a drowning man fighting for breath, but no sound came 
from his lips except a low growl. 

At last, with an unexpectedness that made Stephen’s 
horse retreat a pace, he thrust open the carriage door and 
sprang to the ground; then, slamming the door behind 
him, he placed his broad back firmly against it, and some¬ 
what dramatically folded his arms across his chest. 

‘‘So you want Averill, do you, you dastard?” he 
breathed, scarce above a whisper. “You want Averill? 
Well, you’ll never get her as long as my hand can raise a 
finger. You’ll have to murder me first—though probably 
as you practice abduction you won’t stick at murder.” 
Then, abruptly raising his voice, he shouted: “Sergeant, 
’tis Lady Averill they want. Get your blunderbuss, and 
blow this scoundrel’s head oft at once. Quick!” 

“Sorry, sir. Should be more than happy to oblige, sir, 
but it can’t be done,” responded the driver regretfully. 
“There’s two desprit-looking coves here pointing their 
pistols at my stomach, and they ain’t far enough away for 
there to be any chance of ’em missing me.” 

“You’re a damned coward, Sergeant Ball, and I dis¬ 
charge you from my employ here and now,” shouted the 
Colonel. “D’ye hear? You’re drummed out, sir, dis¬ 
missed the servi-” 

“Now, uncle dear, calm yourself, I pray,” interposed a 
quiet, softly-modulated voice which Stephen thought was 
the sweetest he had ever heard. “I warrant Sergeant 
Ball would help you an he could, and you know it. Did I 
understand this ferocious person, who looks as if he had 
stepped out of a Drury Lane melodrama, to say that he 
wants me?” 

“That was what the impudent rascal said, Averill, but 
he won’t get you,” replied the Colonel, in much milder ac- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


55 


cents. “Remain where you are, my dear, and leave the 
matter to me; I know' how to deal with miscreants of this 
type.” 

But Lady Averill had no mind to leave things to her 
uncle, and, without any trace of fear or excitement in her 
manner beyond slightly flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, 
she addressed Stephen direct. 

“What do you require of me?” she asked calmly, looking 
him full in the face. 

The cold contempt in her look and voice cut Stephen like 
a whiplash, and for an instant he felt as if he had lost the 
power of speech. From the moment in which the lovely 
face had appeared framed in the carriage window he had 
been overwhelmed with shame and disgust at the part he 
played. The fact that he played it for the lady’s own 
sake comforted him not at all; he felt mean and despicable, 
and his eyes fell before her searching glance. 

For his worst suspicions were confirmed. Lady Averill 
Stapleton and his unknown divinity were one and , the 
same; and he silently cursed the malignant fate that had 
caused his first meeting with her to be one which brought 
him nothing but acute distress. In the same breath, he 
thanked heaven for his mask, and prayed that it might 
prove an effective disguise. 

“Well, sir, are you dumb?” asked the lady sharply. “Do 
you propose to keep me here all night whilst you consider 
the pros and cons of the matter ? What do you want of 
me?” 

Stephen’s wits returned from their wanderings, but it 
was only with difficulty that he managed to sustain Lady 
Averill’s stare as he made reply. 

“I want you to accompany me on a short journey, 
madam,” he said gravely. 

“Accompany you on a journey!” she exclaimed in 
amazement. “To whither?” 

“I regret that I cannot tell you that, madam.” 


56 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“But why should I accompany you on a journey? You 
are not prepossessing, and your ways mislike me.” 

“Because I ask it,” replied Stephen, more sternly. “I 

w’ould remind you that you are not at liberty to refuse-” 

But at this juncture Sir Randolph, who had been growing 
more and more impatient at what he evidently considered 
to be unnecessary delay, left Alverford to take care of the 
Sergeant, and, urging his horse forward, he thrust Stephen 
unceremoniously to one side. 

“Enough of this fooling!” he said peremptorily. “We 
have no time to waste in answering your questions, madam. 
Get out of the coach at once.” 

“She shall not. Stay where you are, Averill,” cried 
Colonel Oldfield, his back still fixed against the carriage 
door. 

Sir Randolph wasted no words on the Colonel. Instead, 
he manoeuvred his horse into such a position that the 
animal’s head was pointed in the same direction as the 
carriage, with his ofl-side almost touching the near front 
wheel. He then skilfully backed his mount, with the 
result that the Colonel was compelled, willy-nilly, to 
abandon his post. 

Ignoring the torrent of oaths which fell from the 
chagrined soldier’s lips, the baronet then stooped from his 
saddle and dexteriously wrenched open the carriage door. 

“Now, madam, if you please,” he said in commanding 
tones. 

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Lady Averill 
stepped out into the road. Her face was pale as death 
and her hands trembled; but she contrived to keep her 
self-possession, and her eyes showed no trace of the fear 
which gripped her heart. Her head was held proudly 
erect, yet there was about her a pathetic helplessness which 
she could not disguise, and which made Stephen long to 
reassure her. He comforted himself with the thought that 
her misery would be short-lived, and there and then regis- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 57 

tered a silent oath that no harm should befall her as the 
result of this foolish escapade. 

“What do you wish me to do?” asked Lady Averill, in 
low, uncertain tones. 

“Place your foot on mine, and I will help you to mount 
in front of me,” replied Sir Randolph. “Have no fear; 
you shall not come to any harm, and my horse will easily 
carry both of us.” 

But before she could obey, there was a sound in the 
coppice suggestive of a heavy body being forced through 
the undergrowth, and a loud voice cried: 

“At them, men; we have them red-handed.” 

Immediately everything was confusion. With a sharp 
command to his niece to get back into the carriage, Colonel 
Oldfield, displaying an agility surprising in a man of his 
bulk, sprang for the head of Sir Randolph’s horse. With an 
oath, the baronet put spurs to his mount and jerked the 
reins to one side, with the result that the Colonel’s leap 
was short, and he measured his length in the road. At 
the same moment a vivid flash of lightning heralded the 
coming of the storm, and to his dismay Stephen saw by its 
transient light that they were apparently beset on all sides 
by a body of men, some mounted and some on foot. He 
saw Sir Randolph lift his pistol and take careful aim at 
something ahead of the carriage, and the flash and roar 
of the discharge made him realize very fully the desperate 
situation in which he and his friends were placed. 

“Ride! Ride like the devil!” shouted a voice in his ear. 

The advice was good, but it was not easy to take. As 
he tried to urge his horse forward he felt the reins seized 
by another’s hand, and a hoarse voice commanded him to 
surrender and dismount. Lifting his riding-whip, he 
struck with all his force at where he imagined his assailant 
to be, and at that instant there came a rolling crash of 
thunder, and a deluge of rain which blinded him. His 
Horse reared in affright and almost unseated him, but, 


58 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

although he contrived to preserve his balance, it was in 
vain that he attempted to soothe the frightened animal. 
Pandemonium reigned around him. The storm had 
broken in good earnest, and to the stamp of hoofs, the 
jingle of harness, oaths, curses, commands, and cries, were 
added the fierce shock of the thunder, the blinding glare 
of the lightning, and the malignant hiss of the downpour. 

Men pressed upon Stephen; and he was only saved from 
being pulled from his seat by the plunging and pivoting 
of his horse, which effectually prevented any of the attack¬ 
ing party from getting to grips with him. 

And suddenly the frightened horse became conscious of 
the dig of his rider’s spurs, and with a snort set off at full 
gallop down the dark road, scattering Stephen’s assailants 
as he went. They could not hope to catch him on such a 
night; he even doubted if they would try. He laughed 
as he heard the bellow of disgust which Colonel Oldfield 
flung after his retreating figure, and he congratulated 
himself upon having escaped unrecognized from such an 
uncomfortable predicament. 

But his joy was short-lived. He had not gone fifty 
yards when his flying mount tripped over some obstacle 
and came down heavily upon its knees. Stephen was 
hurled through the air like a stone from a sling, his head 
struck a post in the hedge, and he lay motionless on the 
grass which bordered the road. 


CHAPTER V 


FINDS AND LEAVES STEPHEN IN DIRE STRAITS 

I T was an exquisite morning. Nature was in her most 
delightful mood, and she lay smiling under the tender, 
lover-like kiss of youthful spring. From every tree, brake, 
and dell her choristers, the birds, poured forth their greet¬ 
ings to the radiant day, drenching with melody a landscape 
which had, but a few short hours ago, trembled beneath 
the artillery of the thunderstorm. The fairy gems of 
heavy dew were everywhere. They lay gleaming iridescent 
in the grass; they hung in flashing beauty from the sparsely 
clad branches of the trees; they spangled the filmy lace of 
the dainty webs which busy spiders had woven on the 
hedgerows. The poignant, unforgettable fragrance which 
a grateful English countryside exhales after much-needed 
rain hung on the still air—the most Wonderful perfume in 
the world. 

The sun had only wakened the sleeping world an hour 
ago, and he now shone benevolently from a pale blue sky, 
across which patches of cream-colored cloud moved with 
a leisureliness in keeping with the morning. His rays were 
reflected by the azure waters of a tiny lake which shone 
like a sapphire in the verdant setting of a trim and well- 
kept garden—a lake into which a laughing, dancing, 
miniature waterfall fell headlong in gay abandon. He sent 
his life-giving light into every corner of that garden; and at 
last, espying a pretty but strongly built summer-house 
standing close by the water’s edge, he turned a broad 
59 


60 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


beam through its windows to fall on the still features of a 
man who lay at full length on its bare wooden floor. 

Stephen opened his eyes to the strong light, but imme¬ 
diately closed them again. They felt heavy as lead, and 
his head throbbed painfully. His limbs were stiff and 
aching, his throat was parched, and his tongue seemed 
too big for his mouth. He tried to raise his hand to his dry 
lips, and, failing in his effort, became conscious of the fact 
that he was bound hand and foot. He lay for some moments 
trying to remember the circumstances which had led to his 
present plight, but his brain was sluggish, and he could recall 
only a confused impression of the events of last night. 

At length, by dint of much perseverance and no little 
physical agony, he contrived to sit up, and was surprised 
to find himself gazing into the laughing blue eyes of a man 
who sat leaning against the opposite wall, in an attitude 
of obvious discomfort very similar to his own. The man 
was a stranger to him, yet Stephen noted that he also had 
his hands bound to his sides, whilst a stout piece of cord 
was tied tightly round his ankles. 

“Good morning, Mr. Burgoyne,” said the stranger 
pleasantly. 

“Good morning,” replied Stephen mechanically, in a 
voice that he scarcely recognized as his own. 

“We find ourselves in a pretty pickle,” pursued the 
stranger, laughing gaily. 

“And one which gives us little cause for merriment,” 
retorted Stephen sharply, irritated by the other's laughter. 
“I fail to see the humor of the situation, sir.” 

“Ah, that is because you cannot see yourself,” replied 
his companion. “An you could, I am sure you would be 
as amused as I am. To see the famous Mr. Burgoyne 
trussed like a fowl, with his face smeared with dry blood 
and his clothes torn and covered with mud, is, at least, an 
unusual spectacle; and though doubtless ’tis painful to 
you to be in such a condition, you will forgive me if it 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


61 


appeals to my sense of the ludicrous. As you sit there, Mr. 
Burgoyne, you appear a perfect specimen of the complete 
cut-throat.” 

Despite his words, there was something so charming in 
the stranger’s manner that it disarmed Stephen, and his 
anger evaporated as quickly as it had arisen. Laughing 
in his turn, he said: 

“ ’Fore gad, sir, you have little room to talk. Your right 
eye is well-nigh closed, and will be black as coal ere the day 
is out, your cravat is under your left ear, and your lips are 
cut and swollen. But a truce to compliments. My head 
aches most infernally, and, doubtless on that account, I 
am somewhat at a loss to understand how I come to be in 
your company. ’Twould be a charity if you could en¬ 
lighten me on the point and tell me your name.” 

“My name is Carless—Ned o’ that ilk,” said the stranger 
whimsically. “The folks hereabouts call me the squire. 
As to my being here with you—well, before I explain, may 
I ask if you noticed aught strange about Sir Randolph Gorst 
last night?” As he asked the question his whimsical ex¬ 
pression changed to one of grim earnestness. 

“Yes. Now you mention it, I did,” replied Stephen. 
“Methought him more agreeable than usual, and I confess 
he surprised me by the air of command which he assumed, 
and which became him passing well.” 

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Carless, inclining 
his head with a grave smile. “I was Sir Randolph Gorst.” 

“You—you were- Gad, sir, I must appear a dull- 

witted fool, but damme if I can make head or tail of what 
you are telling me.” 

“Yet ’tis very simple, Mr. Burgoyne. Yestere’en 
about six o’clock I was sitting in the coffee-room of the Bull 
and Royal at Worpleden, a village about five miles from 
here, when there entered a gentleman whom I afterwards 
discovered to be Sir Randolph Gorst. He looked very 
glum, and, methought, a trifle the worse for liquor. He 



62 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


ordered a meal, and whilst he was eating he entered into 
conversation with the landlord, who evidently knew him 
well, talking in such a way that I was compelled to over¬ 
hear everything that was said. I gathered from his re¬ 
marks that he had quarrelled with the lady of his choice— 
a very headstrong young woman who had a penchant for 
roaming the countryside with no other escort than a 
decrepit old uncle.” 

“ ’Twas a strange subject to discuss with the landlord 
of an inn,” interposed Stephen drily. 

“So it was, and in other circumstances it might have 
aroused my suspicions. One does not expect a manjn the 
middle thirties to prate of his mistress like a lovesick boy, 
but I concluded from his manner that overmuch attention 
to the bottle had rendered him a trifle maudlin. Hence, 
when he presently asked me if I did not think it the height 
of folly for a young and unprotected woman to travel the 
roads at night, I agreed with him; whereupon he told me, 
with a drunken, confidential air, that he had been minded to 
teach his fiancee a lesson which she was not likely to for¬ 
get.” 

“Did he mention her name?” asked Stephen sharply. 

“Yes. He said she was the Lady Averill Stapleton,” 
replied Carless. 

“He took some risk in making such a statement, don’t 
you think?” 

“Not he! He knew full well that I am not acquainted 
with Lady Averill, although of course I know her by sight.” 

“Hum! Proceed, sir.” 

“He explained to me that, after their quarrel on the 
previous day, she had, out of sheer perversity, set out in 
her carriage to visit a friend who lives some twenty or 
thirty miles away. She had curtly refused his escort, 
saying that her uncle, who accompanied her, was quite 
capable of taking care of her. This had so annoyed him 
that he had arranged with two of his friends to help him 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


63 


waylay her coach on its return journey and to carry her 
off, in the hope that the unpleasant experience would make 
her less inclined to take similar risks in the future.” 

“A clever tale, and near enough to the truth to make no 
matter,” murmured Stephen. 

“Aye, ’twas clever, Mr. Burgoyne. But wait till you 
hear the end on’t. He proceeded, in most disconsolate 
tones, to tell me that he had that day received news that 
compelled him to leave for London by the night mail— 
a circumstance which would necessitate the abandonment 
of his plan. ‘But I don’t see why it should,’ I objected; 
for, truth to tell, the scheme struck me as being rather,good, 
and I know only too well how necessary it is to pull up 
all women with a jerk now and again—that is, if a man 
hopes to be happy with ’em. ‘Could not your friends 
carry it out without your aid?’ ‘They could, but they 
won’t,’ he answered gloomily. ‘They harp upon its being 
a risky business, and insist that, unless I arrive at the ap¬ 
pointed place before the carriage appears, they will allow 
the lady to proceed on her way in blissful ignorance of their 
lurking presence.’ ” 

“It seems to me that Sir Randolph had succeeded in 
arousing your sympathetic interest,”" hazarded Stephen, 
with a faint smile. 

“He had,” confessed Carless, somewhat shamefacedly. 
“And, what is more, he was fully aware of the fact. How¬ 
ever, at this juncture the landlord, who had remained in 
the room during the conversation, said jocularly: ‘How 
would it be if Mr. Carless went in your stead, Sir Randolph? 
You are about the same height and figure, and what with 
a mask and the darkness your friends would never know 
the difference.’ Gorst smiled sadly and shook his head. 
‘I could scarce ask such a favor of a complete stranger, 
landlord,’ he said quietly. Nevertheless, he eyed me 
covertly, for he could see that the venture appealed to me, 
as it certainly did. Also, Mr. Burgoyne, it struck me that 


64 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

here was an opportunity of earning a few guineas very 
easily.” 

Noting the involuntary expression which this last remark 
brought to Stephen’s face, he paused for a moment, and 
then said with sudden harshness: 

“It astonishes you that a Lancashire squire should 
stoop to earn money?” 

“Not at all,” disclaimed Stephen hastily, flushing with 
embarrassment. tl ’Twas the necessity for it that 
surprised me, nothing more.” 

“You may learn many things about me which will sur¬ 
prise you ere you are much older,” said Carless bitterly. 
“And, lest you judge me too harshly on what you learn, 
ask yourself what you would have done had you grown to 
manhood in ignorance of the fact that all your father would 
leave you would be his blessing and an estate mortgaged 
beyond its value.” 

An embarrassed silence fell upon the two men, but at 
length Carless sighed, and said apologetically: 

“My temper is a trifle brittle, Mr. Burgoyne, but it has 
been rendered so by circumstances. Let me continue my 
tale. To be brief, Gorst baited his trap so cleverly that 
at the end of half an hour I walked into it with my eyes 
open by offering to take his place for one hundred guineas— 
neither more nor less. The amount I asked staggered him, 
and he grew well-nigh purple in the face; but, after cursing 
roundly and haggling like a Jew, he saw that I was not to 
be moved, and he surrendered. He said that he would 
send the money on to me the next day when the work was 
done, but I insisted upon being paid that very night, other¬ 
wise I washed my hands of the affair. So very reluctantly, 
and only after receiving the landlord’s assurance that I was 
to be trusted, he agreed to pay me the money I asked when 
he returned to the Bull and Royal to catch the night mail, 
which left there at eleven o’clock. ‘But I must make a con¬ 
dition,’ he said craftily. ‘If by some mischance you fall foul 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


65 


of the authorities, you will not in any circumstances bring 
my name into the matter.’ The condition seemed to me to 
be reasonable and fair, and I at once agreed to it, whereupon 
he left me to await his return.” 

“And did he return?” asked Stephen, who, in his interest 
in the tale his companion told, had forgotten both his plight 
and his headache. 

“He came back about half-past ten, and handed me one 
hundred guineas in gold. He gave me final instructions 
as to the trysting-place, full details of your plans, and told 
me how I might distinguish between you and Lord Alver- 
ford by your modes of speech. Then he wished me good 
luck, and left by the night mail at eleven o’clock.” 

“Then he actually went off to London,” said Stephen, 
surprised. 

“Ah, that is another matter. But he certainly, went by 
the coach, for I saw him go. ’Twas an astute move, I 
vow. Yet, withal, I ought never to have allowed myself 
to be inveigled into the business; I might have been sure 
that there w as more in it than he had thought fit to tell me. 
I, who had always prided myself on being too old a bird 
to be caught with chaff, walked into the trap like a veritable 
fledgling.” 

“That is the second time you have spoken of a trap,” 
remarked Stephen. “Think you then that last night’s affair 
was a deliberate ambuscade?” 

“There is not a doubt of it,” returned Carless, with 
quiet conviction. “You remember the noise we heard 
in the wood behind us when we were awaiting the coming 
of the coach ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, that was made by some member of the force 
which afterwards captured us, and which I am now certain 
was already in ambush awaiting our attempt at highway 
robbery and abduction.” 

“But I fail to see how that was possible. ’Twould 


66 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


mean that someone had betrayed us; and, prior to Sir 
Randolph’s conversation with you, our plans "were known 
to none apart from Gorst, Lord Alverford, and myself.” 

“If that were so, then the obvious conclusion would be 
that I am the traitor,” commented Carless, with an enig¬ 
matical smile. 

Stephen flushed darkly. “Believe me, sir, such an idea 
never crossed my mind,” he protested sincerely. 

“I do believe you, Mr. Burgoyne,” replied the other, 
smiling. “In any case my present condition would give 
the lie to the supposition. However, the riddle is not 
difficult to solve. Sir Randolph Gorst betrayed us!” 

“ ’Tis a bold accusation to make, sir,” said Stephen 
rather coldly. “How could he benefit by such a contemp¬ 
tible act ?” 

“Before I answer that, I beg leave to ask you one or two 
questions. Did Gorst speak the truth when he told me 
that the Lady Averill Stapleton is betrothed to him?” 

“No, he did not. I can vouch for the fact that Lady 
Averill is not betrothed to anyone.” 

“As I thought. And is Lord Alverford a suitor for her 
hand?” 

“I think you may call him so,” smiled Stephen. 

“And what of yourself, Mr. Burgoyne? You must for¬ 
give me if my questions seem impertinent; they are not 
asked idly, I assure you. Are you also a suppliant for the 
lady’s favors?” 

To his intense chagrin, Stephen felt the hot blood mount 
in a slow flood from his chin to his brow. He looked 
askance at his companion, and felt relieved to note that 
the other’s gaze was directed at the rope which bound his 
hands to his sides and which he was vainly trying to loosen. 

“I am not even acquainted with her,” he said stiffly. 

Carless looked up sharply. “Indeed? Well, I confess 
that surprises me, but it does not materially weaken my 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 67 

theory. But are you quite sure that Sir Randolph does 
not regard you as a possible rival?” 

“I don’t see why he should. Lady Averill is not, to my 
knowledge, aware of my existence.” 

“Then does he bear you any grudge, any ill-will?” 

“ ’Tis possible. There is little love lost between us.” 

“Ah! That removes any doubts I may have had,” 
declared Carless, in satisfied tones. “The case is as plain 
as daylight. Let me reconstruct it for you. For reasons 
best known to yourselves, you, Gorst, and Lord Alverford 
planned to waylay the Lady Averill and to carry her off. 
To avert suspicion you were to ride out separately to a 
chosen meeting-place, arriving there on the stroke of mid¬ 
night. What was to happen after you had captured the 
lady I do not know, nor is it material. But Sir Randolph’s 
plan was more subtle and complex than either you or Lord 
Alverford dreamed. He knew that he was much more 
likely to gain the lady’s favor by appearing as her rescuer 
than as her captor, and this was the role which he, doubtless 
from the first, assigned to himself. So, having made final 
arrangements with you, he set about the task of finding 
someone to take his place in your party. This probably 
proved less difficult than might be imagined. There is no 
doubt in my mind that he bribed the landlord of the Bull 
and Royal, who is a shifty customer, to put him in touch 
with a likely man for the purpose, for I went to Worpleden 
in response to a message sent to me by that individual 
urging me to seek him immediately, as he had news of vital 
import to give me. His important news proved to be an 
idle rumor of little moment, and I was somewhat mystified 
as to why he had thought it worth while to bring me a con¬ 
siderable distance to hear it. However, we had scarce 
talked the matter out when Gorst appeared; and I am now 
absolutely convinced that he came there by prearrange¬ 
ment with the landlord for no other purpose than to meet 
me, and that he knew who I was the moment I entered the 


68 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


room. By gad! sir, he smoked me prettily, and with truly 
ridiculous ease.” 

“So ’twould seem, if your theory be well grounded,” 
agreed Stephen. “Yet I fail to see why you should blame 
yourself so bitterly. There appears to me to have been 
little in his conduct to arouse your suspicions.” 

“Sir, a man in my position ought to be suspicious of 
everything and everybody,” said Carless enigmatically. 
“However, the cream is spilt, and ’tis useless to cry.” 

Stephen pondered for a few moments; then he said 
dubiously: “You take much for granted, sir, or so it seems 
to me. From what you say, Gorst did not leave you until 
about seven o’clock, yet he was back again by half-past ten. 
He must have ridden hard and fast to get to Darnchester 
and back in so short a time.” 

Carless smiled. “There was no need for him to go to 
Darnchester. I take it that, before he met me, he had 
already laid information with the authorities as to his 
discovery of a plot to waylay and abduct Lady Averill 
Stapleton. He probably warned them to have men in 
readiness within easy reach of Bolderburn pending his 
return with further details, and no sooner had he settled 
with me to take his place than he went straight to the High 
Constable and told him to distribute his men in and around 
the coppice which adjoined your trysting-place. He doubt¬ 
less said that they must be in position not later than half¬ 
past eleven, and that he himself would join them as soon 
as possible after that hour.” 

“But you told me that he left on the night mail for 
London.” 

“So he did, but that was only to throw dust in my eyes. 
It would be an easy matter to bribe the coachman to stop 
and set him down; and I’ll wager that he had a horse some¬ 
where along the road awaiting him, and that he did not 
travel by the coach for more than a mile. But, however 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


69 


that may be, he was certainly with the party that ambushed 
us, for I heard his voice.” 

“You are sure of that?” 

“As sure as I am that, given reasonable time, I shall get 
free of these accursed ropes,” asserted Carless, who during 
the whole of the conversation had unceasingly endeavored 
to loosen his bonds. “ ’Twas he who shouted the orders, 
and once I heard him swear in unmistakable fashion.” 

“Your tale hangs well together, sir,” conceded Stephen 
thoughtfully. “But even yet I can scarce believe that he 
would ruthlessly sacrifice three men for so paltry a gain.” 

“Why, Mr. Burgoyne, that was the most astute part 
of his scheme,” cried Carless, regarding Stephen with eyes 
that showed surprise at his innocence. “Indeed, I’ll go so 
far as to say that our sacrifice was his main object. Other¬ 
wise, why do you and I lie here in durance? By appearing 
on the scene with three or four men at his back he could have 
compelled us to beat a hasty and inglorious retreat, leaving 
him to receive the full measure of the lady’s gratitude for 
his timely intervention. But instead of that he brought 
with him a band that numbered fully a dozen, for the 
simple reason that he did not intend that any one of us 
should escape. Don’t you see that if he contrived to 
capture Lord Alverford in the very act of holding up a 
coach on the king’s highway he disposed of him for all time 
as a possible suitor for the lady’s hand? With regard to 
you, he discredited you once and for all in the eyes of 
society, at the same time making it appear that he himself 
was both a hero and a public benefactor. As for me— 
well, I was only a pawn in the game, and not worthy of a 
second thought; and perhaps he hoped to regain the 
guineas which he had paid me, for he would doubtless 
think that, in the short time at my disposal, I should have 
been.unable to unburden myself of them for lack of a safe 
place in which to hide them.” 

“And did he regain them?” asked Stephen, laughing 


70 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

at the whimsical tone in which Carless made his last re¬ 
mark. 

“No, he did not/' returned Carless, with a dry smile. 
“The money was securely hidden within ten minutes of my 
receiving it. My pockets were very thoroughly searched, 
and their contents taken from me, but I am the poorer only 
by a pistol, a clasp-knife, and a few shillings.” 

“You surprise me, sir. I should have thought a man of 
Sir Randolph Gorst’s wealth would disdain to trouble about 
a few paltry guineas.” 

“My dear sir, ’tis usually those who are most richly 
endowed with this world’s goods who take most care of ’em.” 

“Aye, that is true. But to return to last night. It 
would appear that Alverford escaped.” 

“I hope and think he did. Do you recollect hearing a 
shot fired?” 

“Yes; ’twas that which first made me realize the serious¬ 
ness of our position.” 

“Well, I fired that shot. I could see by the light of 
the carriage lamps that Lord Alverford had a good chance 
of getting clear if he acted at once. It was impossible 
to shout and tell him what to do without warning our 
attackers, so I lifted my pistol and fired so as to graze the 
flanks of his horse. ’Twas a desperate remedy, but it 
succeeded beyond my hopes. The horse, stung by the pain 
of the wound, set off like a startled rabbit, and leapt the 
hedge on the opposite side of the road to the coppice. 
That was the last I saw of his lordship, but I am confident he 
got away, otherwise he would doubtless be here with us 
now.” 

“Thank heaven for that!” breathed Stephen fervently. 
“ ’Tis the first ray of light in a gloomy outlook. Methought 
that shot was fired in anger, and I feared that blood might 
have been spilled. That would have made our predica¬ 
ment infinitely worse, and, goodness knows, ’tis bad enough 
as ic is. What do you think will happen to us?” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 71 

I think that if they will only leave us undisturbed for 
a few minutes more our captors will find that their birds 
have flown,” cried Carless exultantly. “See, my hands 
are free at last, and I will soon rid me of the rope that binds 
my ankles. Then, ’twill-” 

But at this moment the murmur of voices fell upon his ear, 
and footsteps crunching the gravel told of the approach 
of men. He tore feverishly at the knots which held him, 
and it seemed to Stephen, who watched him with anxious 
eyes, that he could not possibly accomplish his task before 
their gaolers appeared. But Ned’s good fairy had evidently 
returned to her duties, although the knot still held when the 
footsteps ceased at the door of the summer-house and they 
heard Colonel Oldfield say peremptorily: 

“The key, Sergeant. Give me the key.” 

“Haven’t got it, sir,” came in tones of respectful surprise. 
“You have it yourself, sir.” 

“Of course I haven’t got it,” rasped the Colonel irritably. 
“What the devil should I be doing with the confounded 
key? You’re a fool, Sergeant Ball.” 

“But I gave it to you myself last night, sir,” returned 
the Sergeant patiently. “You’ll remember that after we 
had locked up them two robbers, you said as how you’d 
take the key yourself, sir, so as nobody couldn’t play any 
hanky-panky tricks, sir.” 

“Of course; of course. Why the blazes didn’t ye re¬ 
mind me of that before I left the house? And ’twould 
be more dutiful and soldierly in you if you went and fetched 
it instead of standing there arguing like a pestilent lawyer.” 

“Very good, sir. Might I make so bold as to ask where 
it is?” 

“How the deuce should I know where it is? D’ye 
think I have naught else to think about but keys? I’m 
a soldier, Sergeant Ball, not a prison warden. Go look on 
my dressing-table, and go at the double.” 



72 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


The prisoners breathed sighs of relief as they heard the 
Sergeant retreat at an uneven jog-trot down the path. 

“ Tore gad! that was a stroke of luck,” whispered 
Carless, again working industriously at his bonds. “I’d 
give all Sir Randolph’s guineas for my clasp knife.” 

“ ’Twould be cheap at the price,” agreed Stephen fer¬ 
vently. 

“It would indeed. Mr. Burgoyne, mark well what I 
say. Lacking a knife it will not be possible for me to 
release you before the Sergeant returns with that key. 
But desperate situations need desperate remedies. In 
another minute I shall be free, and I am going to make a 
dash for it. You may think that I am deserting you, but 
such is not the case. I can serve you better free than by 
remaining with you, and if I am fortunate enough to get 
clear, I will not rest until I have contrived your escape. 
Keep up your spirits, and trust in me whatever may befall 
you. Ah! at last,” he concluded, as the recalcitrant knot 
gave way. 

With some difficulty he rose to his feet and stretched 
himself; then, noiseless as a cat, he stepped across to where 
his companion lay. He lifted Stephen into a more com¬ 
fortable position, and then tiptoed round the room in the 
forlorn hope of finding some instrument with which he might 
sever his bonds. But, even as he searched, an impatient 
call from Colonel Oldfield urging the Sergeant to hasten 
told of the latter’s approach with the key. There was no 
time to be lost. Carless sprang towards an unshuttered 
lattice window which was on the side of the summer-house 
farthest from the door, and tried to open it. But the catch 
was rusted through disuse, and refused to move. Quick as 
thought he seized a heavy chair, and with one blow smashed 
the little diamond-shaped panes into a thousand pieces. Dis¬ 
regarding the jagged pieces of glass which still clung to the 
broken leads, he flung a hasty farewell to Stephen and lit- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 73 

erally threw himself through the aperture which he had 
made. 

The resounding crash of the violently shattered glass 
galvanized the Colonel into instant action. Shouting a 
warning to the Sergeant, he ran round the summer-house 
with surprising speed, and was within a yard of Carless 
when the latter regained his feet after his headlong leap. 
But he failed to stay the fugitive. Carless easily eluded 
the grasp of his outstretched hand, and, side-stepping, 
turned and darted off towards the little waterfall at the 
head of the lake. 

Carless’s situation was even more desperate than he had 
anticipated. One glance had shown him that as much of 
the garden as lay within range of his vision was enclosed 
by a high stone wall which would be mighty difficult, if 
not impossible, to scale. There was no sign of a gateway, 
and the only group of trees which appeared to offer 
temporary cover was some distance away, in the direction 
from which the Sergeant was approaching as rapidly as a 
slightly lame leg would permit him. 

But Carless’s presence of mind seldom deserted him. 
His quick brain told him that somewhere close at hand 
there must be a gap in the wall through which flowed the 
stream that fed the lake, so without hesitation he made 
for the waterfall. Bushes and shrubs grew about it, and 
he felt that if only he could reach those bushes he would be 
safe—at all events for the moment. 

The Colonel divined his intention on the instant, and 
stopped short. “He’s making for the fall,” he bellowed. 
“Shoot him, Sergeant. Quick, man. Shoot; shoot.” 

The Sergeant stood still, and, raising a heavy double- 
barrelled pistol which he had pulled from his pocket, took 
steady aim and fired. 

The range was long for a pistol, and the first shot was 
a miss, but even as the second report shattered the peace 


74 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


of the morning the fugitive pitched forward on his face 
and lay still. 

“Damned fine shot, Sergeant Ball!” cried the Colonel 
exultantly. “Couldn’t have winged him better myself, 
damme if I could.” 

But the Colonel’s joy was short-lived. As he and his 
henchman walked forward towards where it lay, the still 
form was suddenly imbued with life. Showing no sign 
of a wound, Carless leapt lightly to his feet, and, running 
easily and swiftly, reached the bushes long before the 
chagrined Sergeant could reload. Turning, he waved a 
laughing farewell to his pursuers, and disappeared from view. 

“Damn the fellow’s impudence!” roared the Colonel. 
“How dare he bubble me with that rotten, moth-eaten, 
hoary-whiskered trick? He’ll laugh on the other side of his 
ugly face when I catch him, the impertinent villian! For¬ 
ward, Sergeant; we may get another shot at him.” 

The two old soldiers hurried as fast as their legs could 
carry them to the spot where Carless had disappeared, 
the Sergeant reloading his pistol as he went. But no sign 
of the fugitive could they see. Diligent searching among 
the bushes, and much scrambling over rocks and boulders 
to the accompaniment of lurid language from the Colonel, 
revealed nothing, and at last they were cojmpelled to 
abandon the chase. 

Colonel Oldfield seated himself on a large stone, and, 
removing his hat, fell to mopping his heated brow with a 
large colored handkerchief. The Sergeant eyed him with 
considerable apprehension, but as the minutes passed 
without any sign of the expected explosion, he concluded 
that his master had forgotten him, and with a sigh of 
relief began to steal quietly away. But he had not gone 
ten yards when a command to halt froze him in his tracks. 

“Sergeant Ball, come here, sir,” cried the Colonel 
peremptorily. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


75 


The Sergeant limped back to where he sat and stood 
stiffly at attention. 

“What have you to say for yourself, Sergeant?” 
enquired the Colonel blandly. 

“Nothing, sir.” 

“Ah, indeed. Nothing, eh? Hum! Take off your 
hat.” The order was curt. 

Sheepishly the Sergeant uncovered his stiff, short- 
cropped grey hair, looking, despite his age, ridiculously 
like a naughty schoolboy. 

“Sergeant Ball, I am grievously disappointed in you,” 
pursued the Colonel weightily. “You are inefficient- 
nay, damme, you are totally incompetent. You are a 
disgrace to the regiment, sir; you have brought shame on 
the uniform you wear—ah, that is, of course”—the Colonel 
coughed to cover his mistake—“the uniform you used to 
wear. D’ye hear? You are the worst shot in all the 
armies of Europe; a black African nigger who had never 
before seen or heard of a pistol could wipe the floor with 
you as a marksman. You, a soldier! Why, you are not 
worthy to carry bow and arrows, let alone modern firearms. 
Sergeant Ball, you are dismissed the service.” 

“Very good, sir,” replied the Sergeant meekly, and, 
turning right about, he put on his hat and marched away 
with as much military percision as his lame leg would per¬ 
mit. 


CHAPTER VI 


DESCRIBES THE COLONEL’S MORTIFICATION, THE SERGEANT’S 
DILEMMA, AND LADY AVERILL’s TRIUMPH 

T HE Sergeant, with never a glance, had passed by the 
summer-house in which lay the remaining prisoner, and 
was proceeding steadily along the path when a voice 
which offered a marked contrast to that which had lately 
assaulted his ears called his name. Turning, he espied, 
famed in a little creeper-covered arbor, the daintiest 
picture of fragrant womanhood that he could have found 
in a long day’s march. So in keeping with her beautiful 
surroundings was she, so exquisitely a part of the perfect, 
radiant morning, that Sergeant Ball instantly forgot his 
troubles, and his face lighted with unalloyed pleasure as 
he went forward to do her homage. 

And verily she was worthy of any man’s homage as she 
sat with parted lips and laughing eyes expectantly regard¬ 
ing the humble worshipper who now hurried towards her. 
The sunbeams which contrived to find their way through 
the dense foliage caressed the soft glory of her uncovered 
hair with a magic touch that added a thousand elusive 
gleams to its golden radiance, and dappled her white 
muslin gown with a pattern more delicate and appealing 
than ever designer conceived. The crimson blossom which 
she had carelessly pinned in her corsage nestled close 
against her as though it loved the charming being whose 
hands had plucked it; even the very creepers which sur¬ 
rounded her seemed to be stretching out their long, grace¬ 
ful tendrils in mute endeavor to touch her. 

76 


CPIANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


77 


“Methinks you are very stiff in the back this morning, 
Sergeant, and when I called you you were far too solemn 
for a bright spring day,” she rallied him gaily. “Pray 
tell me what is the matter.” 

“The Colonel has discharged me, miss.” The Sergeant 
had never been able to break himself of the habit of calling 
her “miss,” despite repeated lessons in the correct mode 
of address from his master. 

“What, again?” laughed Averill. “I vow ’tis becoming 
quite a daily occurrence.” 

“I reckon he means it this time, miss,” said the Sergeant 
solemnly. “It’s a seriouser matter nor usual, this here.” 

“Is it indeed?” She mimicked his gravity, but her eyes 
were alight with mirth. “ ’Tis full early in the day for a 
serious quarrel. Doubtless my uncle’s liver is troubling him.” 

“ ’Taint his liver, miss, nor yet his rheumatics. It’s me, 
miss—me and my cussed pistol.” 

“Indeed. And what have you and your pistol been 
doing?” 

“Why, we missed him clean, we did, miss. It’s like 
this, miss. That condanged pistol o’ mine is a double- 
barrilled ’un, and it kicks like an eight-legged mule. Now 
I ain’t making excuses, you’ll understand, miss, but it’s 
only a matter o’ five weeks and two days since I traded with 
a sea-farin’ fellow for that cussed pistol, and I ain’t gpt 
the feel of it yet, so to speak. In consequence o’ which, I 
missed him—missed him twice; me as was the best marks¬ 
man in the regiment! So you can’t blame the Colonel for 
giving me my discharge, now, can you, miss?” 

“But I don’t understand. I heard your shots, but I 
never dreamed that they were fired in anger; I merely 
thought that you were practising. Do you mean that you 
tried to shoot somebody and failed ?” asked Averill, becoming 
more serious, and wrinkling her brows in pretty perplexity. 

“That’s it, miss. It was one of them robbers as was 
catched last night as was escapin’ right under our very noses, 


78 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


and owin’ to my dinged pistol he got clean through our 
lines as nice as nip.” 

“He escaped?” 

“He did an’ all, miss. Leapt to one side when I fired 
my first round, dropped down pretendin’ to be killed after 
I fired my second, then jumped up, laughed at us, and 
bunked. The Colonel’s very sore about it; it’ll make him 
look such a fool—er—beg pardon, miss, I mean a idjit— 
when the High Constable comes, d’ye see, miss?” 

“But how did the prisoner come to be hiding in our 
garden?” 

“He wasn’t hidin’ in it, miss; he was doing his level 
best to get out of it. You’ll recall that last night High 
Constable and his men captured two o’ the enemy. Well, 
he was for takin’ ’em to Darnchester gaol then and there, 
but Sir Randolph Gorst, him as was evidently general- 
officer-commanding-in-chief o’ the patrol, said as it was too 
risky to travel twenty mile on a black night like last night 
with two slippery customers like them robbers. He like¬ 
wise said as if they escaped it wouldn’t be an easy matter 
to catch ’em again, as they couldn’t be identified very well 
owing to ’em not having been seen in the daylight. So 
they were fetched here and locked in the summer-house, 
Sir Randolph saying as he would come over with Mr. 
Crisp early today to examine ’em in preparation for the 
court-martial.” 

“And they escaped after all. I fear Sir Randolph 
Gorst will be ill-pleased when he hears the news,” com¬ 
mented Averill, with a peculiar little smile. 

“Oh, no, not both of ’em, miss; only one of ’em,” the 
Sergeant corrected her. 

“Then what of the other? Is he still in the summer¬ 
house?” she queried, with a sharpness which made it 
appear that the additional information gave her little 
pleasure. 

“Bless my soul, miss, why, I’d clean forgot about him,” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 79 

confessed the Sergeant, his eyes full of consternation at 
this unparalleled neglect of duty. 

A whimsical smile crossed Averill’s face. “Well, I don’t 
see that it was any concern of yours,” she said airily. 
“You forget that you had already been discharged.” 

“True, miss,” agreed the Sergeant uneasify, “but you’ll 
understand-” 

“I understand exactly, Sergeant,” she interrupted, silenc¬ 
ing him with a gesture, “and I repeat that the prisoner’s 
safe custody is no longer your concern.” 

“What’s that ye say, young woman?” broke in a harsh 
voice. “Can I believe my own ears? D’ye mean to tell 
me that you are inciting this infernal scallywag of a Ser¬ 
geant to mutiny?” 

The Colonel had approached unnoticed over the lawn, 
the soft green turf preventing his footsteps from heralding 
his coming. Averill turned her head with slow deliberation, 
and regarded him coolly. 

“I pray you tell me, uncle, how can a man mutiny when 
he is not in the service?” She spoke with an air of 
polite enquiry. 

“Tush, madam! You interfere in matters which do 
not concern you, and which are beyond a woman’s ken,” 
blustered the Colonel, trying to meet her glance and failing 
signally. 

“Think you so, uncle dear?” she queried sweetly. “Alas! 
we poor women are doubtless very stupid, and our wits 
move slowly. But our curiosity is insatiable, and we must 
needs ask questions lest our weak brains be turned by the 
unsatisfied longing for knowledge which will not let us 
rest. Thus I am dying to know how fares your one re¬ 
maining prisoner. Is he disconsolate that he still remains 
in durance when his companion has been allowed to escape?” 

The Colonel’s face flushed a rich, full-bodied crimson with 
embarrassment. “His companion was not allowed to 
escape, madam,” he growled uncomfortably. 



80 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Ah, then you recaptured him after Sergeant Ball had 
left you,” she said softly, looking up at him with innocent 
eyes full of admiring wonder. 

“No, I did not,” shouted the mortified Colonel. “Dammit, 
madam, you would exasperate a saint, and Sergeant Ball 
is a blabbing, tale-telling old washerwoman.” 

“Sergeant Ball is nothing of the kind,” she contradicted 
pertly. “He was courteous enough to gratify my woman’s 
inquisitiveness, that is all, sir. ’Tis a pity that you do not 
profit by his example.” 

“Gad’s blades, young woman, but you go too far! Dis¬ 
cipline in this household has gone to the dogs. But I’ll alter 
that, damme! Go to your room, madam, and go at once. 
We’ll see if a day or two on bread and water will make 
you understand that I command here, and that I will not 
be defied by a pert chit of a girl. D’ye hear me?” 

“I’ faith, yes, I hear you, sir; and I should say that the 
deafest man in the village can also hear you quite plainly.” 
She made no movement to obey his orders, but gazed with 
languid eyes in the direction of the summer-house, towards 
which the Sergeant kept sending uneasy glances. “But 
’tis too fine a day to spend in my room, and bread and water 
as a spring diet does not appeal to me, so I prefer to remain 
where I am, and to take my meals as usual.” 

“D’ye dare to disobey me openly, you undutiful hussy?” 
he cried, glaring at her as though he were about to assault 
her. “By Jupiter! madam, you’ll-” 

“I’ll do nothing that does not please me, sir,” she inter¬ 
rupted him coolly. “You seem to forget that I came of 
age five years ago, and that I live in your house, not be¬ 
cause I am compelled, but because I-” 

She stopped, and, glancing at him covertly from under 
her drooping lashes, saw a spasm of pain flit across his 
angry face. 

“Yes? Because you what, madam?” he asked gruffly. 

“Why, because I am foolish enough to be far too fond 




CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


81 


of a terrible old tyrant who constantly tries to bully me,” 
she replied softly, smiling up at him suddenly and radiantly. 

The Colonel’s face lighted magically, and he cleared his 
throat with inordinate vigor. Stooping, he took her hand 
and kissed it with a strange mixture of love and reverence; 
but ere he could straighten his back her arms were round 
his neck and her lovely cheek was pressed close against his 
lined red face. Then she pulled him down into the seat 
beside her, and sat contentedly with her golden head resting 
on his shoulder and his arm close about her. 

“Averill, my dear, you are wonderful,” he murmured 
at length. “You will drive the man you marry to distrac¬ 
tion on occasion, but you will also lift him into a heaven 
such as few mortals find in this life.” Then, catching sight 
of the Sergeant, whom he had completely forgotten, and 
who was beaming with satisfaction at the happy ending to the 
little comedy which he had just witnessed for the hundredth 
time, he roared: “What the devil are you grinning at, you 
ape? How dare you stand there spying and listening 
when you have been dismissed the service? Go pack your 
kit and get you gone.” 

The Sergeant saluted and turned sorrowfully away, but 
he had not taken two steps when Lady Averill bade him 
stop. She had lifted her head from her uncle’s shoulder, 
and was sitting bolt upright in her seat. 

“One moment, Sergeant, if you please,” she said. “Do 
I understand, uncle, that your decision to discharge Ser¬ 
geant Ball is irrevocable?” 

“Absolutely, madam,” replied the Colonel, scowling 
fiercely. 

“I am very pleased to hear it,” she said calmly. 

The two men stared at her in blank amazement, then 
over the Sergeant’s face spread a look of infinite sorrow 
that cut the Colonel to the quick. 

“I take it that you will find a new employer, Sergeant,” 
she observed, in the same calm tones. 


82 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“I hope so, miss,” replied the Sergeant heavily. “I am 
not as young as I used to be, and it isn’t everybody as will 
employ a man as is lame. Old soldiers isn’t much use to 
anybody, you’ll understand, miss.” 

“I see. How old are you, then?” 

“Fifty-two, miss.” 

“ ’Tis a great age.” 

“Perhaps it is, miss, though I can’t say as I feel very old 
most days.” 

“Hum! Well, I know somebody who wants an old 
soldier with a lame leg who is fifty-two years cld.” 

“Do you, miss?” queried the Sergeant, brightening a 
little. “I’d take it kindly if you’d tell me his name and 
where he may be found.” 

“Oh, it isn’t a he; it’s a she,” returned Averill. 

“What, a woman, miss?” he cried, visibly disappointed. 
“I can’t see as I’d be very much use to a woman, miss.” 

“On the contrary, I think you would, and for my sake I 
should like you to offer yourself for the post. Will you ?” 

“I’d do anything for your sake, miss. Where does 
the lady live?” asked the Sergeant wistfully. 

“Here,” she replied, a spark of mischief beginning to 
dance in her eyes. 

“Here, miss?” echoed the perplexed Sergeant. 

“Yes, here. I am the person who requires a man¬ 
servant, and as you have agreed to offer yourself for the 
position I accept your offer, Sergeant. You will take 
up your duties this very instant.” 

It is impossible to describe the amazement with which 
her auditors received this cool announcement. The 
Sergeant stared at her for a moment with wide-open eyes, 
as though he could not credit his own ears, but his look 
of astonishment slowly gave place to one of delighted 
satisfaction. Yet when he tried to thank her something 
stuck in his throat, something which needed swallowing 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 83 

but which was very difficult to swallow, something which 
caused him to cough hoarsely and ineffectually. 

However, his late employer, recovering at last from his 
stupefaction, was in no mind to let this flagrant flouting of 
his authority pass unchallenged. He glared first at his 
niece, then at the Sergeant, and back again; but both 
of them appeared entirely oblivious of the anger within 
him which clamored for expression, and which dyed his 
face to a rich port-wine shade. So, springing to his feet, 
he roared: 

“Gad’s blades! madam, d’ye defy me? Am I no longer 
master in my own house? I forbid you to employ this 
wastrel; I will not have it. You—you are an impertinent 
baggage; yes, I repeat, a baggage, madam. And as for 
you, Sergeant Ball, I’ll-” 

“You’ll please sit down and be quiet, uncle,” inter¬ 
posed Averill icily. “I do not permit outside interference 
with my personal servants, please remember that. Also 
I think you are very rude, sir; the title of baggage mislikes 
me exceedingly.” 

But the Colonel was thoroughly roused and not disposed 
to be lightly turned from his purpose. He could be stub¬ 
born as a mule on occasion, and the loss of his prisoner still 
rankled in his mind. Distasteful though they were, he 
was chagrined beyond measure at his failure to carry out 
the duties which the High Constable had thrust upon him; 
and he was quite convinced that the Sergeant alone was to 
blame for the prisoner’s escape. So, disregarding his 
niece’s command, he took a step forward to where that 
unfortunate individual stood eyeing him with nervous 
apprehension. 

“Are you going to obey my orders, you mutinous dog?” 
he rasped. 

“No, he is not,” said Averill sharply, before the Ser¬ 
geant could reply. 

“Dammit, madam, will you hold your tongue? I was 



84 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


not addressing you.” He turned again to the Sergeant, 
and glared at him balefully. “Once again I order you 
to pack your kit and to leave my house. I await your 
departure.” 

The picture presented by the two men was so comical 
that Averill had considerable difficulty in preserving her 
gravity. The Colonel was short and stout, and stood with 
his sturdy legs planted wide apart, looking fiercely up at 
the Sergeant who, well over six feet high, held his tall, thin 
figure stiff and straight as a ramrod—the personification of 
indecision and distress. Averill was irresistibly reminded 
of a plump and ill-conditioned terrior bullying a lean mas¬ 
tiff, and bullying him successfully, too. For there was 
little doubt that the Sergeant was wavering; the habits 
of a lifetime fought against him, and she saw that a few 
more seconds would encompass both his defeat and hers. 
And she, for one, had no mind to be defeated, so she 
attacked again—this time with a different weapon. 

“Methinks, uncle, that the shocking temper in which you 
chance to be this morning is causing you to forget your 
duty,” she said languidly. 

He turned on her sharply, touched on the raw. “My 
duty, madam? I’d have you know that ’tis not my habit 
to forget my duty. What the devil d’ye mean?” 

“Oh, nothing in particular,” she replied carelessly. “But 
I understand that only one of your prisoners escaped. What 
became of the other?” 

“Why, he is in the summer-house, of course,” he snapped 
irritably. 

“Are you sure of that?” she enquired sweetly. 

“Of course I’m s-” he began; then he stopped, and 

a look of uncertainty and alarm came into his eyes. 

Quick to see her advantage, Averill rose from her seat and 
confronted him. 

“You are not sure, sir,” she said accusingly. “So you are 
neglecting your duty. Have you seen him this morning?” 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


85 


“Er—no,” said the Colonel uneasily, dropping his eyes 
before her steady gaze. “I was just about to—er—to 
visit the captives when I saw one of ’em escaping, and I 
followed him. Isn’t that so, Sergeant?” 

“Yes, sir,” returned the Sergeant promptly. 

“And, having failed to recapture him, you of course 
went to see that his companion was still secure?” she pur¬ 
sued mercilessly. 

“Er—well—er—that is, no, madam. To be quite 
candid, Averill, I forgot all about the second man in the 
loss of the first,” said the Colonel frankly, gazing at her 
with appealing eyes. 

“Dear me! Was that the way that you did things in 
the Army?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “And then 
you have the audacity to say that such matters are beyond 
a woman’s ken! Well, sir, what are you going to do?” 

“Do, madam, do?” said the Colonel, quivering under the 
lash of her tongue. “What the devil can I do?” 

“Well, first you can apologize for calling me a baggage, 
second you can kiss me if you do it nicely, and third you 
can take the Sergeant with you and look to that poor man 
in the summer-house without further delay.” 

Colonel Oldfield hesitated a moment; then, placing his 
arm round her waist, he pulled her to him with rough 
tenderness. “You are not a baggage, dear, and I was a 
boor to call you so; I pray you forgive me,” he said. “On 
the contrary, you are the most ravishing, most tantalizing, 
most adorable creature in all Europe.” 

“That is much better, sir,” she said graciously. “I 
think—yes, I think you may kiss me.” 

And kiss her he did, with almost as much fervor as 
though he were her lover instead of her uncle. 

“Fie, sir! I vow you hug like any bear,” she reproved 
him laughingly. “ ’Tis a thousand pities you never 
married, uncle; you would, I think, have made a very 
excellent husband.” 


86 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


He released her, and turned away abruptly to hide the 
shadow which her words had brought into his eyes. 

“Nay, my dear, I am better as I am,” he said quietly. 
“I fear I should be a sore trial to any woman.” Then, 
suddenly recollecting his trust, he said abruptly: “Come, 
Sergeant. We will see to our prisoner.” 

Averill regarded the two men with thoughtful eyes as 
they marched away. Her victory was complete, and she 
knew it. But although she felt sure, by virtue of many 
similar experiences, that the breach between her uncle and 
the Sergeant was healed, she was puzzled to know why 
she had been compelled to fight so hard to heal it. Scarcely 
a week ever went by without the fiery old soldier dismissing 
his servant at least once, but usually these incidents were 
forgotten by everyone concerned within an hour or two of 
their happening. This time, however, the Colonel had 
shown surprising obstinacy, and she could not help thinking 
that his perturbation arose from a deeper cause than the 
escape of a captured cutpurse who had been committed to 
his charge. The strong bond of mutual admiration, 
affection, and esteem that existed between master and man 
had been rendered almost unbreakable by years of close 
association; they had shared alike danger, hardship, safety, 
and comfort, and she could not conceive that either of them 
would willingly sever that bond without extreme provoca¬ 
tion. Yet her uncle had most certainly shown every 
desire to sever it that morning, and the circumstance 
worried her greatly as she walked slowly back to the house. 

The Colonel spoke no word as he led the way to the 
summer-house. His anger was gone, and he never bore 
malice, but he felt that his dignity demanded that he should 
not as yet show any undue cordiality towards his hench¬ 
man. Being nearly ten years the Sergeant’s senior, he 
had never ceased to regard him as a somewhat irresponsible 
young man who must, upon occasion, be made to remember 
his lack of years and experience; and it was unbecoming 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 87 

in a senior officer to be affable to any man whom he had 
just been compelled to reprimand with unusual severity. 

However, having come to the door of the summer-house, 
a thought struck him, and he addressed the Sergeant sternly. 

“One moment before you open the door, Sergeant. 
Who was responsible for the tying up of these men last 
night? Was it you?” 

“No, sir,” replied the Sergeant eagerly. “It was some 
o’ Mr. Crisp’s men as did it, under the orders of Sir 
Randolph Gorst.” 

“Was it done properly?” 

“Well, it wasn’t done as I should ha’ done it myself, 
sir. But Sir Randolph was very partic’lar, and he made 
’em do one of ’em twice over.” 

“Was that the one who escaped?” 

“No, I don’t think so, sir.” 

“Why don’t you think so?” 

“Because him as escaped were clean and whole, sir, but 
the one as were tied up twice was covered with mud—to 
say nothing o’ the blood which had run down his face from 
a cut in his temple.” 

“He had been injured in the fray, then?” 

“It was him as was throwed from his hoss, sir, attemptin’ 
to get through our lines.” 

Lying in misery in his bonds, with his head aching with 
redoubled energy, Stephen had been a prey to acute anxiety 
as to his late companion’s well-being. The two shots which 
he had plainly heard had, for a while, filled him with ap¬ 
prehension ; but as the minutes dragged slowly by without 
his privacy being invaded, he began to take heart again and 
to hope that Carless had got away unscathed. 

And now the conversation which took place outside his 
prison confirmed his hope, for it told him quite definitely 
what he wished to know. But it also confirmed Carless’s 
conviction that Sir Randolph Gorst was intent upon his 
own undoing, and he marvelled at the lengths to which 


88 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


the baronet had gone to accomplish it. However, he had 
little time to speculate upon the matter before the door 
opened to admit his gaolers. 

The anxious face with which the Colonel entered the 
room showed obvious relief when his eyes fell upon his 
prisoner, still bound hand and foot; but after a sharp 
glance at him he crossed to the broken window and 
examined it closely. 

“Damn the fellow!” he ejaculated. “He has made a 
most infernal mess of this window. How did he do it?” 

“With this here chair, sir,” said the Sergeant, picking 
up the chair and setting it upon its legs. 

“Hum! Well, he might have opened it decently 
instead of smashing it to atoms.” 

“Expect he was in too big a hurry to worry about that, 
sir,” returned the Sergeant. 

“Is that the rope he was bound with ?” asked the 
Colonel presently, pointing to some cord which lay on the 
floor. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Was it cut?” 

“No, sir; it was untied.” 

“And how the devil did he manage to untie it?” 

“Dunno, sir. It must ha’ been a hard job.” 

The Colonel grunted, and placing the chair directly in 
front of Stephen, he sat down in it. 

“Now, sir, attend to me,” he said brusquely, fixing 
Stephen with stern eyes. “Who are you?” 

“That is for you to find out, sir,” replied his prisoner 
pleasantly. 

“Let me warn you that insolence will benefit you little,” 
snapped the Colonel, flushing angrily. 

“And in return let me tell you that curiosity will benefit 
you not at all,” retorted Stephen coolly. 

With an effort the Colonel controlled his temper. It was 
difficult to tell from his unkempt appearance what manner 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


89 


of man this captured criminal was, but his cultured accents 
and well-cut garments surprised the Colonel and roused 
his curiosity. But he was no fool, and he saw at once that 
if he wished to learn anything it behoved him to treat his 
prisoner more tactfully. 

“You do not propose to answer my questions then,” he 
remarked, in a milder tone. 

“Not unless it pleases me to do so,” returned Stephen. 

“Ah! Then will it please you to tell me if your com¬ 
panion was assisted in his escape by someone from out¬ 
side?” 

“It can harm no one to tell you that. My companion, 
by dint of much perseverance and effort, wriggled free of his 
bonds unaided.” 

“And why did he not release you also?” 

“Because he lacked the time. He had nothing to work 
with except his bare hands, and his ankles were still bound 
when we first heard your voices outside the door.” 

“Then if I had not been obliged to send the Sergeant 
back for the key we should have been in time,” ventured 
the Colonel, with an uneasy glance at his servant’s expression¬ 
less face. 

“Undoubtedly you would.” 

“Hum! Then I was to blame, after all,” he murmured 
in a low voice, more to himself than to anyone else. Then 
in louder tones he said: 

“I understand from what took place last night that you 
held up my coach with the intention of abducting my niece. 
Am I right?” 

“Perfectly right,” said Stephen, realizing that, as this 
fact was already known to several people who could and 
would be called to witness against him should he come up 
for trial, there was nothing to be gained by denying it. 

“May I ask the reason for such ungallant conduct?” 

“No ungallantry was intended, sir,” said Stephen stiffly, 
flushing hotly under his grime. “It was not proposed to 


90 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


treat the Lady Averill with aught but the courtesy becoming 
to her sex and rank.” 

“Gad’s blades! you surprise me,” said the Colonel, with 
heavy sarcasm. “Do you, then, consider it courtesy to 
carry off an unprotected female at the point of a pistol in 
the dead of night?” 

“That was but the means to an end,” replied Stephen, 
acutely uncomfortable under this embarrassing cross-exam¬ 
ination. “I repeat that it was not intended to harm her in any 
way.” 

“Hum! Methinks you will find the judge difficult to 
convince on that point,” opined the Colonel drily. “How¬ 
ever, we will waive it for the moment. Was it your inten¬ 
tion, then, to hold her to ransom?” 

“Ransom!” ejaculated Stephen, with such unfeigned 
astonishment as to convince the Colonel that his guess was 
wide of the mark. “Good heavens! no; certainly not.” 

“Then it was not money that you were after at all?” 

“No, it wasn’t,” snapped Stephen, his pride quivering 
to the sting of these unpleasant questions. 

The Colonel turned to the Sergeant with a peculiar smile. 
“Do you think he is telling the truth, Sergeant Ball?” he 
asked. 

“Sure of it, sir,” replied the Sergeant promptly. 

“Well, strangely enough, so am I,” said the Colonel. 
Then, narrowing his eyes suddenly, he snapped out: “Who 
hired you for the task?” 

The question was so unexpected that Stephen was taken 
by surprise, and he hesitated before answering. For an 
instant he was sorely tempted to say “Sir Randolph 
Gorst,” but, notwithstanding his intense desire to get even 
with his betrayer, some instinct warned him that it would 
be an unwise course to take. No, the time would come 
when he would repay the baronet’s perfidy with interest, 
but that time was not yet. So instead he replied: 

“Nobody hired me, sir.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


91 


But his hesitation had not passed unnoticed by the 
astute old soldier. What little information he had extracted 
from his captive had strengthened an already-formed 
suspicion that the incidents of last night had a deeper signi¬ 
ficance than was apparent on the surface. It was the 
recollection of the timeliness of the rescue that had first 
given birth to this suspicion. To anyone with the most 
elementary knowledge of matters military it would have 
been obvious that the arrival of the High Constable’s posse 
at the critical moment was no accident of circumstance, 
but that, on the contrary, it was the result of a carefully 
planned coup. Furthermore, he could not understand how 
Sir Randolph came to be in command of the force; and the 
baronet’s insistence upon the captives being confined in 
his premises until the daylight had puzzled him still further. 

The reason which Sir Randolph had advanced for the 
latter precaution was entirely unconvincing. He had with 
him at least a dozen well-armed men, and the Colonel did 
not see how it could be possible for the prisoners to escape 
the vigilance of such an escort, even on the darkest night. 
Lastly, he was beginning to feel certain that the man before 
him was no common cutpurse. His clothes, muddy and 
disarranged though they were, and his refined speech were 
not altogether in keeping with the trade of highway 
robbery, and his cool and haughty demeanor was quite the 
reverse of what the Colonel had expected. 

“I am going to make you an offer, my friend, and one 
which you will be wise to consider carefully,” said Colonel 
Oldfield weightily, after a short silence. “I have influence 
with the authorities, and am prepared to use it on your 
behalf on certain conditions.” He paused for a reply, but 
as none was forthcoming he continued: “My terms are 

these. If you will tell me the names of your accomplices 
in last night’s outrage I give you my word that you shall 
be free ere the day is out.” 

Stephen smiled. “Are you not taking a grave risk?” 


92 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


he said quizzically. “ ’Twould be an easy matter for me 
to give you two or three imaginary names, and you would 
have no proof that I did not speak the truth.” 

“I am quite prepared to trust you without proof of any 
kind,” retorted the Colonel quietly. 

For a moment Stephen stared at him in complete astonish¬ 
ment; then he again colored painfully. “I cannot accept 
your offer,” he said curtly. 

“Would you not be better advised to give it your careful 
consideration?” asked the Colonel blandly. 

“It needs no consideration; my refusal is final.” 

“As you please; but I fear you are making a mistake. 
In any case, I should have thought the offer merited your 
thanks,” commented the Colonel reprovingly. 

“Thanks!” echoed Stephen, with a short hard laugh. 
“I give thanks to nobody for inviting me to become an 
informer, sir.” 

Without further parley the Colonel rose to his feet. 
“What time is it, Sergeant?” he enquired, walking to¬ 
wards the door. 

The Sergeant lugged a huge silver watch from his pocket. 
“Nigh nine o’clock, sir,” he replied. 

“Gad’s blades! and I am still on the wrong side of my 
breakfast.” 

“So am I,” interposed Stephen flippantly. 

“Why, bless my life, so you are! I suppose ’tis incum¬ 
bent upon us to feed you, though it seems a shocking waste 
to give good food to a man who will shortly hang from a 
gibbet. What do you say, Sergeant?” 

“He must be mighty hungry, not to say thirsty, sir,” 
replied the Sergeant, with a hint of compassion in his 
voice. “We ought to give him something, sir.” 

“Hum! Well, he shall have some bread and water,” 
said the Colonel gruffly. “But first he must be moved; 
we cannot afford to run any more risk of escapes. Go and 
fetch Dixon and one of the grooms, and have him carried 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


93 


to the stables. There is an empty loose-box there, and 
once he is inside it somebody must remain on guard at the 
door until he is taken out of my hands. You understand, 
Sergeant?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then go. I will remain here until you return.” 

The Sergeant departed on his errand, leaving Stephen 
a prey to consternation. If he were removed from the 
summer-house, it would surely render Carless’s promise 
of rescue impossible of fulfilment. Carless would be at 
a loss to know whither he had gone, and the delay which 
must necessarily ensue before he could locate the new prison 
would be fatal to his plans. For time pressed. Once in 
the hands of the High Constable and his minions all hope of 
escape would be gone, and Stephen knew that the arrival of 
that officer of the law to claim his prisoners might be ex¬ 
pected at any moment. 

But it was not long before his unpleasant musings were 
cut short by the return of the Sergeant, accompanied by 
two burly fellows who promptly seized Stephen by the 
shoulders and ankles and, despite his size, lifted him 
without the slightest difficulty. Under Colonel Oldfield’s 
directions, they carried him for a distance of about a 
hundred yards, and at length entered a large loose-box 
which stood at the end of a block of stables and deposited 
him on a heap of soft, sweet-smelling hay. The hay had 
obviously been placed there quite recently, and Stephen 
knew instinctively that he had the Sergeant to thank for 
this kindly endeavor to ease his lot. He sent a grateful 
glance in his direction, but received only a stolid stare 
in reply. 

“Now, Dixon, you will remain on guard immediately 
outside the door, and you will not desert your post for 
anyone or anything without my express orders,” said the 
Colonel briskly. 

“Very good, sir,” responded Dixon, a big, taciturn-look- 


94 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


ing fellow whose dress proclaimed him to be a gardener, 
and from whom Stephen had small hope of getting any 
concession. 

“Mightn’t I loosen his bonds a bit, sir?” ventured the 
Sergeant, as his master turned to leave. “He’ll be feeling 
sore and stiff, and there ain’t much chance of him getting 
out o’ here with a sentry on guard.” 

“Please mind your own business, Sergeant Ball,” rasped 
the Colonel sharply. “ ’Tis his own criminal folly that 
brought him here, and miscreants must take their punish¬ 
ment as it comes. I refuse to run any risks with him; so 
get you gone, Sergeant, and send word at once to the High 
Constable that one of the ruffians is free, so that he may 
take steps towards his recapture.” 

Without further comment the three men filed out of the 
loose-box, closing the door behind them. The captive 
heard a key grate harshly in the lock, and he was left alone 
to his thoughts and his galling bonds. 


•! 


CHAPTER VII 


TELLS HOW LORD ALVERFORD RECEIVES A MYSTERIOUS 
VISITOR 

N ED CARLESS breathed a sigh of thankfulness when, 
peeping cautiously from his hiding-place, he saw 
Colonel Oldfield disappear in the direction of the house. 
His stratagem had succeeded, but only by the merest chance. 

On reaching the welcome shelter of the bushes he had 
been dismayed to find that, owing to the early season of 
the year and the consequent sparseness of their foliage, 
they afforded but little cover, and none in which he could 
expect to hide successfully. There were certainly plenty of 
boulders in the vicinity, but to take shelter behind one 
of them was simply to postpone recapture and not to elude 
it. He was in a desperate position, and one which was 
rendered the more unenviable by the Sergeant’s skill as a 
marksman. Only Carless realized how narrowly those 
bullets had failed to wing him. The second had actually 
passed through the skirt of his riding-coat, and it was that 
which had caused him to drop as if hit, in the hope that, in 
his excitement, the Sergeant would neglect to reload. 

He was further chagrined to find that, although his in¬ 
stinct had not erred when he opined that the stream would 
show him a way out of the garden, the little bridge under 
which it flowed into the Colonel’s grounds was fully eighty 
yards distant. He could scarcely hope to cross safely the 
intervening space, for the ground was too rough and steep 
to permit of rapid progress, and he knew only too well that 

95 


96 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


the Sergeant’s pistol was of heavier calibre and carried much 
further than the average weapon. 

For a moment he despaired; and he had almost made up 
his mind to risk a desperate dash for the bridge when his 
keen eye discovered, about twenty yards away on his 
immediate right, a tiny hollow partly screened by a laurel 
bush. Without hesitation he ran swiftly to it, and found, 
to his delight, that it was much deeper than he had expected, 
and that by lying close in it he would be invisible to his 
pursuers unless they came within very close proximity 
to him. 

He had scarce thrown himself into the hollow when the 
Colonel appeared in the identical place which he had just 
left, where he was joined almost immediately by Sergeant 
Ball. Carless thanked his stars that he had not attempted 
to reach the bridge, for, from where he lay, he could see how 
hopeless such an attempt would have been. The stream 
was too wide to jump, and apparently too difficult to ford 
on account of precipitous banks; and it took a winding 
course which he would have been compelled to follow, and 
which would have kept him within range sufficiently long 
to have enabled the Sergeant to retrieve his previous failures. 

But, even as things were, his situation was by no means 
happy. He furtively watched his pursuers search the 
vicinity with a thoroughness that was born of their soldierly 
instincts. Once his heart nearly stood still as the Colonel 
approached to within five yards of where he lay. But 
the bush alone would not have concealed a child, and 
Carless had also counted on the fact that it stood isolated 
in the midst of open ground, in a line at right angles to that 
which he would naturally be expected to pursue. From 
his demeanor, the Colonel evidently thought it unlikely 
that the fugitive had taken this direction, for his step was 
slow and his eyes were less keen than usual; and after 
a casual glance at the bush he turned away and rejoined 
the Sergeant, who was still searching among the rocks. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


97 


At last, to Carless’s intense relief, the search was aban¬ 
doned. He chuckled to himself at the speech with which 
the Colonel discharged his unfortunate servant, every 
word of which reached his tense ears. He waited patiently 
until he heard the Colonel move away in the Sergeant's 
wake, and, raising his head carefully, watched the short, 
broad figure until it was out of sight. Then, without 
hesitation, he sprang to his feet and made for the 
bridge. 

Here his task was easier than he had anticipated. He 
had fully expected that he would have to wade, perhaps 
swim, under the bridge to avoid scaling the high wall which 
enclosed the garden; but he found that several stones in one 
of the abutments of the bridge had been displaced, and he 
had no difficulty in climbing to the parapet and dropping 
on to the road. Here another pleasant surprise awaited 
him. Instead of the lane which he had expected he found 
himself on the main highway; so with a hasty glance round 
him to get his bearings he strode swiftly and without any 
attempt at concealment towards the north. 

Carless’s alert brain worked rapidly as he walked. He 
had no time to lose if he were to redeem his promise of 
rescue to Stephen. The High Constable was not likely to 
delay unduly his return for his prisoners, and prompt action 
was therefore imperative, for there would be little hope for 
Stephen if once he were safely lodged in gaol. 

By the time he had covered a mile his plans began to 
take definite shape in his mind. Careful calculation made 
him time the High Constable’s arrival at about eleven 
o’clock; and this would give him about two hours in which 
to make his preparations. Little enough for the purpose, 
but with luck it would serve. 

Turning at length to the left off the highway, he traversed 
a pretty, winding lane that led to a small farmstead. The 
farmer himself was crossing the yard as Carless entered it, 
and he halted to view his visitor with quizzical eyes. 


98 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“In trouble again, eh, Ned?” he said, with a shrewd 
smile. “What’s it this time?” 

“I’ve just escaped from the clutches of the High Con¬ 
stable,” replied Carless, smiling in his turn. 

The farmer raised questioning eyebrows. “As bad as 
that, is it?” he said, more seriously. “I doubt you’ll be 
hanged yet, lad.” 

“Maybe I shall, but it won’t be this week,” said Carless 
confidently. “But there’s work to be done, Nick, and 
little time to lose. Have you got the key to the loft?” 

“It’s in th’ usual place. Nobody’s been in th’ loft sin’ 
you used it last. But what about the Constable’s men? 
Are they after you?” asked Nicholas Merryweather, a note 
of anxiety creeping into his voice. 

“Not yet, Nick. And you’ve no call to worry. They 
didn’t recognize me last night, of that I’m certain. They 
wouldn’t have left me if they had. I’ll explain later. 
Is there a horse in the stables?” 

“Aye, but there’s nobbut th’ bay mare, and I’d sooner 
you didn’t take her.” 

“Why not?” queried Carless sharply. 

“Well, her four white feet mak’ her easy to tell, and 
everybody round here knows as she belongs to me.” 

Carless laughed his relief. “She won’t have four white 
feet when I take her out of this yard,” he said easily. 
“Leave that to me.” 

Merryweather sighed dubiously. “All right; have it 
your own way,” he capitulated, turning towards the 
stable door. “Shall I saddle her?” 

“Yes, please, Nick. And tell me, how soon can I reach 
the Gables from here?” 

“Th’ Gables?” echoed the farmer. “You surely don’t 
mean Lord Alverford’s place, do you now?” 

“Of course I do,” retorted Carless impatiently. 

“By gum! but you beat cock-fighting, you do, Ned,” 
marvelled Merryweather, eyeing the other with mystified 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


99 


admiration. “It’ll tak’ you about ten minutes across country 
and a bit longer by road.” 

“Hum! Well, I’d better go by road. Boldness pays 
in this kind of situation. But I don’t want to be seen when 
I leave here, so you had better send Joe up to the top of the 
lane and tell him to whistle when there’s nobody in sight 
on the road. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.” 

At the precise moment when Carless disappeared into 
the loft, Lord Alverford, pale and glum of countenance, 
entered the dining-room of the Gables to find his handsome, 
white-haired mother sitting in solitary state disposing of 
the last remnants of her breakfast. She frowned and 
pursed her lips when she saw him; and, having kissed her, 
he took his seat opposite her and resigned himself to receive 
the rating w T hich he knew was coming. 

“You are late again, Henry, abominably late,” said Lady 
Alverford acidly. “Must you invariably disregard my 
wishes? Am I always to have my breakfast in solitude?” 

“Ah, ’pon my word, I am sorry, mother; dooced sorry, 
ya know,” replied her son. “I had a most confounded bad 
night, and I didn’t sleep a wink till dawn.” 

“I am not surprised,” she retorted. “ ’Twould, me- 
thinks, be more conducive to peaceful slumber if you sought 
your couch a little earlier. It passes my comprehension 
what you find hereabouts to keep you out till two o’clock of 
the morning.” 

The viscount flushed, and shifted uneasily in his chair. 
“Two o’clock!” he echoed. “Nay, surely, mother, ’twas 
scarce as bad as that. I-” 

“Enough, sir!” said Lady Alverford peremptorily. “ ’Tis 
useless to deny it, for I, also unable to sleep on account of 
the storm, chanced to be at my window when you rode up 
the drive, and I saw you quite clearly. Might I presume 
so far as to ask where you had been?” 

“I had been with Steve Burgoyne and Randolph Gorst,” 
he answered readily, but with his eyes fixed on his plate. 



100 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Ah! Then Mr. Burgoyne still lingers in the neighbor¬ 
hood,” commented Lady Alverford. “What keeps him, 
pray?” 

“Well, ya know, his horse is lame, as I told you before, 
mother.” 

“Bah! ’Tis not as lame as your explanation, I’ll vow,” 
she retorted tartly. “You must think me a fool, Henry! 
Are there, then, no other horses in Bolderburn that will 
carry Mr. Burgoyne?” 

“Of course there are, but ya see, mother, Steve is plaguey 

fond of this particular anim-” She interrupted him 

impatiently. 

“Enough, Henry! You weary me, and you do not 
deceive me one whit. I am sufficiently well acquainted 
with your friend to know that it would require something 
more than an ailing horse to keep him in an obscure Lanca¬ 
shire village.” 

“Quite so, mother. But, dooce take me, ya are for¬ 
getting that he is my greatest friend, and surely that is 
sufficient reason for him to linger awhile,” protested Harry. 

His mother regarded him sceptically. “It might be, but 
I beg leave to doubt it,” she said, with unflattering 
directness. “And if it be for your sake that he lingers, 
why has he not called upon us here? I am vastly dis¬ 
appointed in him, Henry. Methought he had some little 
regard for me, and I confess that I have always liked him. 
Your friends are not usually to my taste, but I had little 
fault to find with Mr. Burgoyne until now.” 

“Nay, madam, ya wrong him, indeed ya do, b’jove,” 
declared Harry eagerly. “ ’Tis my fault that he has not 
already paid his respects to ya, and last night he bade me 
tell ya that he would visit ya this very afternoon—er— 
that is, if—er—nothing occurred to prevent it, ya know,” 
he concluded lamely, suddenly recollecting that he was 
quite in the dark as to what had happened to Stephen 
during last night’s brush with the High Constable’s men. 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


101 


“And what can possibly occur to prevent it, pray?” 
asking Lady Alverford, raising her eyebrows. “Does 
Bolderburn boast so many attractions, then?” 

But the embarrassed viscount was spared the necessity 
of replying immediately to these awkward questions by the 
entry of the butler, who desired to consult his mistress upon 
some problem connected with the household. The matter 
proved somewhat lengthy, and the grateful young nobleman 
made undue haste with his breakfast in the hope that he 
might discreetly disappear ere it was satisfactorily settled. 

And good fortune abetted him. Even as Lady Alverford, 
having given the butler final instructions and dismissed him 
to his duties, prepared to resume her cross-examination, 
a footman entered the apartment with the announcement 
that a “person” was waiting in the hall who desired to see 
his lordship on most urgent and important business, and who 
would not be denied. 

“What’s his name?” queried Harry, gulping down his 
last mouthful with ill-concealed relief. 

“He refused to give it, your lordship, and he is unknown 
to me,” replied the lackey. “And I should not ’ave ad¬ 
mitted ’im if ’e ’adn’t said as the matter was vital and 
brooked no delay.” 

“All right. Show him into the library. I’ll be there 
in a minute.” 

He rose to his feet as the door closed behind the footman, 
but his mother stayed him with a gesture. 

“One more word, Henry, and then you may go to your 
mysterious visitor,” she said. “I am quite well aware 
that your late home-coming last night was due to some¬ 
thing much more serious than you would have me believe, 
for I have already been to the stables and there discovered 
that the horse you rode is wounded in the flank. But 
I have no wish to force your confidences. All I desire is 
your assurance that you are not engaged in some amorous 


102 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


intrigue that will not bear the light of day,” she concluded 
wistfully, and with an expression of anxiety in her eyes. 

Harry laughed with sudden relief, and, stepping forward, 
kissed his mother lightly on the brow. 

“Ya may set ya’ mind at rest, madam,” he said, in a tone 
that precluded all doubt as to the truth of his words. “In 
the whole district I don’t know of one solitary woman, 
apart from ya’self and Averill, whom I’d look at twice, 
stap me if I do! What put the idea into ya’ head?” 

“Your horse’s wound,” she answered promptly. “Bolder- 
burn is a peaceable place, and I hazarded a guess that the 
only person who would be likely to try to shoot you would 
be a jealous husband or an irate father.” 

“You are wide of the mark, mother,” he laughed, striding 
towards the door. “The matter was of little moment, 
and I pray ya forget it.” 

He entered the library to find himself in the presence 
of a tall, well-built man who stood near the fireplace 
impatiently tapping his chin with the butt of his riding- 
whip. As the door opened, the man turned to the viscount 
a dark, sallow face lit by a pair of keen blue eyes—a face 
which might have been handsome but for its thick lips and 
the bluish tinge of the cheeks and chin that doubtless came 
from the constant shaving of a heavy black beard. In 
addition to these defects, Harry noted that the top lid of 
one of the blue eyes drooped in peculiar fashion, and that 
the man’s clothes, though well cut, were worn and travel- 
stained. 

“Ya wanted to see me, I believe,” said Harry, eyeing 
his visitor somewhat askance. “Be seated, sir.” 

“I prefer to stand, if it’s all the same to your lordship,” 
said the other. “I must be on my way again at the earliest 
possible moment.” 

“Ya are in haste, then, my friend? Well, ya may go as 
soon as ya like. Burn me if I’ve any wish to keep ya,” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN * 103 

said his lordship indifferently, as he dropped languidly into 
a chair. 

The stranger showed his white teeth in a flashing smile. 
“You are not enamored of my looks, eh? Well, I can’t 
blame you, for neither am I. You do not by any chance 
know me, I suppose?” 

“Never set eyes on ya in my life before that I know of. 
Who are ya?” 

“That I cannot, at the moment, tell you. Little as 
you may like it, I must ask your lordship to take me on 
trust for the present. I hope that you are none the worse 
for your misadventure of yesternight.” 

Startled almost out of his wits, Harry sat bolt upright 
in his chair. “What the devil do you know of yesternight?” 
he cried, alarm in his voice. 

“Everything. I will explain presently. But first I 
must ask you a question or two. Oh, ’tis no use your 
standing on your dignity,” he said impatiently, as Harry 
frowned and stared at him haughtily. “ ’Twill be better 
for everybody, yourself included, if you answer my questions 
without parley. Lord Alverford, do you know what 
happened to Mr. Burgoyne after vou galloped away from 
the fight?” 

Haughtiness gave place to anxiety in his lordship’s eyes. 
“No, damme if I do!” he said uneasily. “Somebody fired 
a pistol, and the bullet grazed my horse, and he set off 
across country as though the devil were after him. I 
couldn’t pull him up, and he eventually stumbled and threw 
me. It took me a dooce of a time to catch the brute in 
that infernal darkness; and by the time I got back to the 
scene of action everything was quiet as the grave, and there 
was not a soul to be seen. So I ventured to hope that my 
friends had got away, and as there was nothing I could do 
I went home, b’jove.” 

“Perhaps your lordship will be surprised to know that 
I fired that shot,” said the other smiling. 


104 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Did ya, agad?” ejaculated Harry. “Did ya intend to 
wing me, then?” 

“No. I intended to startle your horse, so that he might 
carry you out of danger, and I was successful beyond my 
hopes.” 

“But why did ya want me out of the way?” asked the 
mystified viscount. 

“To save you from being taken prisoner, as Mr. Burgoyne 
was.” 

“What!” shouted Harry, springing to his feet in a panic. 
“Steve a prisoner! What are ya saying, man?” 

“ ’Tis only too true, unfortunately. I left him but an 
hour ago lying in Colonel Oldfield’s summer-house, awaiting 
the arrival of the High Constable to take him to gaol.” 

“Oh, gad, what a dooce of a mess!” breathed Harry, 
his face a picture of dismay. “And is Sir Randolph there, 
too?” 

“No. Sir Randolph played you false.” And, in as 
few words as possible, Carless repeated the story which he 
had recently related to Stephen, omitting, however, to 
divulge his own name, but concluding his narrative with a 
brief description of his escape from the summer-house. 

“ Ton my soul and honor, ’tis the most fantastic tale 
I ever heard,” declared Harry, shaking a doleful head. 

“Aye, ’tis fantastic, but ’tis nevertheless true. And it 
behoves us to act quickly if we are to aid Mr. Burgoyne. 
I have promised to contrive his escape, and I have little 
doubt that I can redeem my promise. But it must be 
done prior to his being lodged in gaol. Once in Darnchester 
he will be beyond my reach. Are you willing to act with 
me in this, Lord Alverford? The task is delicate, not to 
say dangerous, and I would have you think twice before 
committing yourself.” 

“No need to think, man,” cried Harry, his heart bound¬ 
ing within him at the prospect of another frolic. “I don’t 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 105 

know who ya are, but ya may count on me to the limit, 
b’gad.” 

“Good,” said Carless, smiling his satisfaction. “You 
may be ill-pleased with the part I wish you to play, but ’tis 
a vastly important one, and it must be handled with skill 
and diplomacy if we are to be completely successful. I 
want you to go at once and call upon Colonel Oldfield. 
Tell-” 

“Can’t be done, sir,” interrupted Harry, shaking his 
head. “He has promised to shoot me on sight if he catches 
me within his gates again.” 

Carless made a gesture of impatience. “Your call will 
be formal, sir, and even Colonel Oldfield cannot show 
violence to a formal visitor. For that reason you will go 
in your carriage. Make what excuse you like for your 
call. Maybe your best plan would be to say that Lady 
Alverford has heard of the Colonel’s adventure, and desires 
to be assured that he and his niece are none the worse for 
their unpleasant experience.” 

“’Tis a bright idea,” declared Harry more hopefully. 
“Methinks ’twill serve. And what then? Surely there 
is more to my part than that?” 

“There is. You must, by hook or crook, contrive to see 
the prisoner, and to see him in the presence of either 
Lady Averill or the Colonel—preferably the former. If 
you can contrive that they both accompany you when you 
visit him, so much the better.” 

“But surely that will be to defeat my own purpose,” 
objected Harry. “I can’t even give him a message if others 
are present, now can I ?” 

“I do not propose to send him a message.” 

“Then what the dooce must I see him for? ’Twill be 
most cursed embarrassing for us both, ya know.” 

“Doubtless it will, and maybe ’twill put you in a false 
position for the nonce in Mr. Burgoyne’s eyes. But that 
pannot be helped. For ’tis not only Mr. Burgoyne’s escape 



106 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


that we have to consider. We must so contrive things that 
once he is free no suspicion will attach to his name.” 

“Agad! methinks that will be plaguey difficult. They 
must already be fully aware of his identity. Even if he 
weren’t recognized, that pestilent traitor Gorst will have 
given him away.” 

“I doubt it; in fact, I am certain he will have done no 
such thing,” said Carless confidently. “Sir Randolph’s 
position in this affair is a precarious one, and he must per¬ 
force step warily. Hence I am sure that he would be too 
astute to breathe Mr. Burgoyne’s name last night. He is 
hoping that his prisoner will be recognized by another, and 
then he will merely confirm that recognition whilst showing 
profound astonishment at the discovery.” 

“Sounds feasible enough, and all of a piece with the rest 
of his villainy,” mused Harry. “And ya don’t think anyone 
else has spotted Steve yet?” 

“I don’t. He was in a most dishevelled condition when 
I left him, and his face and clothes are covered with grime. 
Only someone who is intimately acquainted with him 
would be likely to identify Buck Burgoyne in such a state, 
and I understand that he is not well known in this neigh¬ 
borhood.” 

“No. He is practically a stranger.” 

“Well, we have no time to discuss the matter further. 
We are compelled to take some risks. So I will proceed. 
’Tis well known that Mr. Burgoyne and you are intimate 
friends. Thus, if when you see the prisoner you discover 
him a complete stranger, it will be difficult for anyone to 
gainsay you. And that is what you will do.” 

“But suppose Steve gives the game away. He doesn’t 
expect me, does he?” 

“No. However, we must trust to his wit in the matter, 
and I do not think he will disappoint us. And you must 
be on the scene ahead of Sir Randolph. I surmise that he 
will almost certainly wait for the High Constable before 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


107 


he puts in an appearance, otherwise he might find himself 
plyed with questions that would be difficult to answer. 
Colonel Oldfield is no fool, and the circumstances of the 
case must seem mighty strange to a soldier.” 

'“And is that all I have to do?” asked Harry, looking 
woefully disappointed. 

“That is the most important part of your work, but, in 
addition, I want you to use every means in your power to 
delay the High Constables departure with his prisoner.” 

“At what time does Colonel Oldfield expect him?” 

“That I cannot say, but I hazard that ’twill be between 
eleven and twelve. But whatever time it may be, you 
must remain until he has been and gone.” 

“Now perish me if it isn’t a most uncongenial task you 
are giving me, sir,” cried Harry petulantly. “Couldn’t 
ya find me something easier, something which doesn’t 
need such a plaguey lot of thought, what? I’ll w T ager I 
make an incontinent mess of this, for I am no diplomat 
—in fact, most folks consider me totally brainless, b’jove.” 

“So much the better that they do,” declared Carless 
promptly. “But I know more about you than you think, 
Lord Alverford, and I am fully aware that they are vastly 
mistaken.” 

“Ya flatter me, sir, ’pon my soul and honor ya do,” said 
Harry, a twinkle in his eve. 

“You’ll do as I wish, then?” 

“I suppose I’ll have to,” said Harry, W’ith a sigh of 
resignation. 

“Good. Then the sooner you set out the better,” said 
Carless, preparing to depart. 

“But what are ya going to do ya’self?” asked Harry. 
“Am I to be kept in the dark as to ya’ plans?” 

“I think it better so.” 

“Why? Don’t ya trust me?” queried Harry sharply. 

“Implicitly,” replied Carless simply. “I shouldn’t be 
asking your aid otherwise. But my plans are only half 


108 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


formulated, and I may have to vary them to suit the circum¬ 
stances. Such variation, if you were unaware of it, would 
only cause you unnecessary worry, and you will need all 
your wits for your own task. However, if things turn 
out successfully, I promise to communicate with you with 
all possible speed.” 

“One moment, sir, ere ya depart. Are ya not taking 
grave risks in riding boldly about the countryside without 
attempt at concealment? You may be sure that the hunt 
is up after ya.” 

“Not a doubt of it,” smiled Carless. “But the High 
Constable’s men seek a fair-haired, fresh-complexioned 
fellow with a black eye—for such was the man they captured 
—whilst I am a swarthy, blue-chinned ruffian. The black 
eye gave me most trouble to rid, and even yet the lids are 
inclined to close; but I think ’twill serve.” 

“But ya’ clothes! Won’t those betray ya?” 

“I think not. They compare very unfavorably with 
the modish garments which the escaped prisoner chanced 
to be wearing.” 

“Agad! sir, methinks ya are something of a mystery,” 
opined Harry, regarding Carless with admiring eyes. 

“So others have thought before you, your lordship,” re¬ 
turned Carless enigmatically, as he bowed and hastened 
from the room. 


CHAPTER VIII 


WHEREIN LADY AVERILL DEFIES THE COLONEL AND 
BEFRIENDS STEPHEN 

F OR nearly an hour Stephen lay in torment of mind and 
body. His head throbbed, every muscle in his cramped 
frame ached, the cords round his wrists cut like knives 
into his swollen flesh, and he was faint with hunger. He 
pictured himself confined for interminable weeks in a dank 
and stinking gaol awaiting trial; he saw himself standing 
in the felons’ dock, shrinking before the merciless eyes of 
the judge; his morbid fancy even painted a picture of a 
gallows upon which he stood with a rope round his neck 
expecting to be hurled into eternity. 

Consequently it was with a feeling akin to gladness that 
he heard footsteps and voices which told of somebody’s 
approach to his prison-house. He was prepared to welcome 
anything that might give him respite from his thoughts, 
for, despite Carless’s promise of rescue, he had abandoned 
hope when Colonel Oldfield had thought fit to have him 
moved from the summer-house to the loose-box. 

But it was evident that his taciturn warder did not share 
his pleasure in the arrival of visitors, for there ensued an 
altercation outside the locked door, every word of which 
was perfectly audible to him. 

“I can’t let you in, mum,” growled Dixon’s rough voice. 
“The Colonel said as nobody must see th’ prisoner wi’out his 
orders.” 

“The Colonel’s orders do not apply to me, Dixon,” came 
in haughty feminine tones. “Open the door at once.” 

109 


110 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Can’t be done, mum. It’s too risky,” declared Dixon 
stubbornly. 

“Open it, I say!” Stephen heard the angry stamp of a 
small foot on the cobblestones of the yard. “You are 
absolutely inhuman, all of you. Your prisoner may be a 
scoundrel, but that is no excuse for starving him to death. 
Food he must and shall have, so please argue no further.” 

“But the Colonel-” 

“Enough, sir; I will be responsible to the Colonel.” 

The peremptory tones brooked no denial, and the door 
was grudgingly opened to admit Lady Averill Stapleton. 
She was accompanied by the Sergeant, who carried in his 
two hands a tray laden with a dainty selection of viands 
and a huge pot of fragrant coffee. Stephen looked up at 
her with eyes that showed a strange mixture of gratitude 
and shame, and he felt the blood rise slowly in his face as 
she steadfastly returned his gaze. 

“Put down your tray, Sergeant,” she said briskly. “And 
untie the man’s hands.” 

“Daren’t do no such thing, miss, askin’ your pardon,” 
returned the Sergeant, placing the tray on the floor and 
then standing stiffly to attention. 

“Please don’t be ridiculous, Sergeant Ball,” snapped 
Averill. “How is the poor man to eat if his hands are 
bound ?” 

“I reckon as I’ll have to feed him, miss.” 

“Nonsense! If you don’t untie him I shall do so myself,” 
she declared. 

“But suppose he makes a dash for it; what then?” pro¬ 
tested the Sergeant despairingly. 

Impatiently Averill turned to Stephen. “If we relieve 
you of your bonds, will you give me your word that you 
will make no attempt to escape as long as we remain with 
you?” she asked. 

“Gladly, madam,” replied Stephen fervently. 

“Does that satisfy you, Sergeant?” queried Averill. 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


111 


“Aye, it satisfies me, miss—as long as the Colonel doesn’t 
come and catch us,” returned the Sergeant, with an appre¬ 
hensive glance behind him. 

“Leave the Colonel to me. And be quick, Sergeant. 
The coffee will be growing cold.” 

Abandoning his qualms, the Sergeant, not without con¬ 
siderable difficulty, contrived to release the cruel cords that 
bound the prisoner’s wrists, and Stephen almost fainted 
with pain as the blood began to flow freely again beneath 
the lacerated skin. The eyes of both his visitors were quick 
to note his distress, and Averill exclaimed indignantly. 

“The brutes!” she cried, her face aglow with compassion¬ 
ate anger. “How dared they tie him so dreadfully tight? 
Look, Sergeant; the cords have bitten into the flesh until it 
bleeds. Were you responsible for this?” 

“Not I miss,” disclaimed the Sergeant hastily. 

“Then who was?” she demanded, going down on her 
knees at Stephen’s side and gently taking his hands in hers 
so that she might more closely examine his wrists. 

The Sergeant scratched his head. “Well, miss, it was 
the High Constable’s men as did it, but it was Sir Randolph 
Gorst as ordered it to be done,” he explained, somewhat re¬ 
luctantly. “He wasn’t satisfied with it the first time, and 
made ’em do it over again.” 

“But if he were so particular, how did the other man 
escape so easily?” she asked, as, taking a jug of hot water 
from the tray, she poured some of its contents into a basin, 
and, ignoring Stephen’s protests, with her own tiny hand¬ 
kerchief began to bathe his wrists. 

“Oh, he didn’t bother about the other fellow, miss, only 
this one,” said the Sergeant. 

“Why was that?” she queried sharply, looking up from 
her task. 

“Couldn’t say, miss, unless it was that he thought one 
of ’em more important than t’other.” 


112 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Can you explain it, sir?” she asked, addressing herself 
to Stephen. 

“I am afraid I cannot,” replied Stephen, to whom the 
Sergeant’s replies had been decidedly illuminating. 

“Hum! I wonder,” said Averill sceptically. “How¬ 
ever, Sir Randolph shall explain it himself, and I’ll warrant 
the explanation will afford him little satisfaction. I suppose 
’tis of no use my asking you who you are.” 

“If you will pardon me, madam, not the slightest,” 
replied Stephen, smiling. 

“I thought not,” said she, smiling in turn. “Still, 
perhaps you will tell me if you practice highway robbery 
as a means of livelihood.” 

Again the hot flush of shame mounted in Stephen’s grimy 
cheeks. “I do not, madam,” he said quickly, and with 
more indignation than his situation justified. “You may 
not believe me, but last night was the only occasion upon 
which I have appeared in the guise of a highwayman.” 

“But I do believe you,” said Averill calmly. 

Both Stephen and the Sergeant stared at her in undis¬ 
guised astonishment. 

“You—you believe me?” stammered Stephen. 

“I do,” she said firmly. 

“But why should you?” he asked. “Was I then so 
unbusinesslike in my methods that I advertised myself an 
amateur?” 

Averill laughed. “I’ faith, no! Your methods accorded 
precisely with what I imagine to be those of the highly 
experienced professional. But I believe you for the same 
reason that I took your word that you would make no 
attempt to escape during the time that I remained with you,” 
she said enigmatically. 

“And that reason is-?” 

“A woman’s reason, sir, and therefore not to be 
divulged,” she said promptly. “Has the numbness gone 
from your hands?” 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


113 


“Thanks to your ministrations, madam, yes,” said 
Stephen gratefully. 

“Then proceed with your breakfast. Sergeant, place 
the tray a little nearer.” 

The Sergeant obeyed, and as he did so Stephen looked 
up at Averill with a quizzical smile. 

“Madam, your infinite charity makes me bold, and I 
venture to trespass on it,” he said. “Might I beg that 
my legs also be unbound?” 

“Certainly,” she said, without hesitation. “Sergeant, 
undo that rope.” 

“Good lord! miss, but I’ll be hung, drawn, and quar¬ 
tered for this if the Colonel comes,” murmured the Ser¬ 
geant, nevertheless kneeling down to the task. 

“You make me eternally your debtor, Lady Averill,” 
said Stephen fervently, as he fell to on the viands that 
were spread on the tray before him. 

She gave him a sharp and searching glance. “You 
know me then, sir?” she said.questioningly. 

“Nay, madam. I had but seen you once prior to last 
night.” 

“And when was that, pray?” she asked, with apparent 
indifference, but watching him narrowly from under her 
long lashes. 

“Two days ago,” he said unguardedly, forgetful of every¬ 
thing but the charm of his companion and the excellence 
of the breakfast with which she had provided him. 

“Where?” The abrupt question awoke his slumbering 
prudence, and he gazed at her with eyes turned suddenly 
grave ere he answered. 

“I regret that I am unable to tell you, madam,” he said 
slowly. “ ’Twould be indiscreet in me to do so.” 

“Doubtless it would,” she agreed, with corresponding 
gravity, yet with a twinkle in her eyes which Stephen failed 
to observe. “I will not press the point. But I perceive 


114 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


that your forehead is cut; I had not noticed it before. Is 
it painful ?” 

“The cut itself is naught, but it has made my head ache 
most infernally,” he answered, with a rueful smile. 

“Ah, then I will bathe it for you,” she said promptly. 
“It may ease it a little.” 

But Stephen drew back sharply as she picked up the 
basin of water in which her saturated handkerchief re¬ 
mained. He had not forgotten his late companion’s 
remarks about the coating of grime and blood that his 
face had acquired, and he knew that if it were removed 
his last vestige of disguise would be gone. At all costs 
he must contrive to remain unwashed until Averill had 
taken her departure—although he realized that she was 
not the type of woman to be lightly turned from any 
purpose to wdiich she had set her mind, and it was probable 
that refusal of her kindly ministrations would make him 
appear churlish in her eyes, but that he would have to risk. 

“Your pardon, madam, but I would prefer it to remain 
as it is,” he said hurriedly. “I fear bathing might make it 
bleed afresh, and that would necessitate a bandage; and I 
have no desire to attract any more attention than is 
necessary on my journey to gaoL ’ 7 

“I understand,” said Averill slowly, showing in her 
manner no trace of the offended dignity which Stephen had 
anticipated. “Methinks you are a wise man.” 

“Wise!” echoed Stephen. “Say rather a fool to be in 
such straits.” 

“You speak bitterly, my friend.” 

“And with good cause. Yet I suppose I have only 
myself to blame,” he said gloomily. 

“Nay, look not so glum. Surely all it not lost,” 

“I’ faith! madam, ’tis as near lost as makes no 
matter,” he returned. “An hour or two more and the 
prison gates will close behind me, and there will be small 
hope for me then.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


115 


“ ‘While there’s life there’s hope’ remember that. ’Tis 
an old adage, but a comforting one. And you are not in 
prison yet.” 

Gently she rallied him from the gloom into which he had 
sunk, and by the time his breakfast was over he was 
laughing gaily and unaffectedly. 

Observing that he had finished his meal, she was about 
to give orders to the Sergeant for the removal of the tray 
when to her ears came the growing sound of voices raised 
in argument, which warned her that her uncle was about 
to pay his prisoner another visit. Sergeant Ball had also 
heard them, and he sent in her direction an imploring and 
apprehensive glance. 

“Stand your ground, Sergeant,” she said quietly, 
answering his unspoken question. “ ’Tis too late to do 
anything, but you Peed have no fear. I will arrange 
matters.” 

“If it will help at all you can wrap the cords round me 
again, and I will pretend that I am still bound,” said 
Stephen hastily. “Colonel Oldfield will doubtless fail 
to notice that there is anything wrong.” 

“Good idea,” said the Sergeant eagerly, picking up a 
cord and stepping forward quickly. 

But Averill waved him away, and turning her lovely 
face to Stephen, she rewarded him with a dazzling smile 
that made his heart thump like a hammer. 

“Your wits are quick, sir, but the precaution is un¬ 
necessary, as you shall see,” she said calmly. 

The voices of the two men who had now entered the 
stable yard, but who were as yet invisible to their auditors, 
presented a contrast so irresistibly comical that it brought 
a smile to the lips of even the uneasy Sergeant. One was 
so loud and blustering that it almost reached a shout, 
whilst the other was mild and gentle as a woman’s. 

To Stephen the latter brought complete astonishment 
not unmixed with hope—astonishment that Alverford 


116 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


should have discovered his prison and had the temerity to 
visit him, and hope that his visit was not without purpose. 

“But I positively must see him, Colonel,” Harry was 
saying. “Ya have no right to refuse me, pink me and 
perish me if ya have! ’Tis ya’ duty to let me see him, 
for I might know him, b’jove.” 

“Duty be damned!” retorted the Colonel rudely. “I 
know my duty, young man, without any instruction from 
you. I told you I’d shoot you if ever you came here again, 
ye young dog, so you come first thing in the morning when 
I’m not expecting you, damn you.” 

“Nay, come now, Colonel, ya wrong me, ya do indeed,” 
protested Harry, in languid tones. “My mother insisted 
on my coming as soon as she heard the news.” 

“Tchah! A fine lot o’ notice ye’d have taken of your 
mother if you hadn’t thought you’d catch a glimpse of 
Averill, I’ll be bound. You have the devil’s own 
effrontery.” 

At this instant the Colonel reached the door of the loose- 
box, which, in the heat of his argument with Harry, 
he had hitherto failed to notice was wide open. Instantly 
he stopped dead in his tracks, and stood like one petrified 
with amazement and anger. His eyes bulged, his face 
colored until it was well-nigh purple, and the blue veins 
in his forehead stood out like whipcord. 

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” he yelled, when 
at last he had recovered his powers of speech. 

“Methinks its meaning is obvious, uncle,” returned 
Averill calmly. “I am giving this poor fellow his break¬ 
fast.” 

“Breakfast! Breakfast! Ham and toast, coffee and 
pigeon pie, fresh fruit and scones. Breakfast, madam! 
Gad’s blades, you astonish me! ’Tis a damned banquet, 
and you are giving it to a dirty, thieving rascal who tried 
to abduct you. Dixon, you disobedient dog, did I not 
tell-” 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


117 


“Please address your remarks to me, uncle, and not to 
Dixon,” interrupted Averill. “I alone am responsible for 
everything.” 

“Indeed now, madam, ’tis kind of you to acquaint me 
with the fact,” said the Colonel, with a none-too-successful 
attempt at sarcasm. “And was it you who unbound this 
miscreant’s limbs—or was it Sergeant Ball?” he snapped 
suddenly, turning baleful eyes on the Sergeant. 

“ ’Twas Sergeant Ball,” replied Averill, heedless of the 
soldier’s reproachful look. 

“Ah! I thought as much,” said the Colonel, breathing 
heavily. “So ’twas you, you traitorous villain, you ungrat- 
ful vagabond. By Jupiter! I’ll have you-” 

“Yes, it was Sergeant Ball, acting under my orders,” 
pursued Averill serenely. 

“Your orders, eh, madam?” choked the Colonel. “Con- 
found you and your orders! There is only one person 
who has a right to give orders here, and that is myself. 
Myself, madam, d’ye hear?” 

“Perfectly, uncle. Your voice carries passing well, al¬ 
though perhaps you are a trifle inarticulate. But you 
forget that the Sergeant left your service an hour or so ago 
and entered mine. Hence he takes his orders from me, 
sir.” 

“And by what right do you give him orders to interfere 
with my prisoner? Answer me that, madam!” blustered 
the Colonel, but with less assurance. 

“By the right of common humanity, sir,” retorted Averill. 
“No man starves if I can prevent it, be he sinner or saint. 
Come, uncle, you are unreasonable. What harm have I 
done?” she asked, in softer tones. 

“None, as it chances,” he replied, somewhat mollified. 
“That, however, is not the point. He might have attempted 
to make a dash for it, like the other fellow did, and I fancy 
he would have had a fair chance of getting past Dixon 



118 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


and the Sergeant, for he is a sizable rogue, and handy 
enough with his mauleys by the look of him.” 

“There was never any possibility of his making such an 
attempt,” she said quietly. 

“Indeed! And why not?” 

“Because he had given me his word not to do so as long 
as I remained here.” 

“Oh! He gave you his word, did he, the rascal? Ha! 
Hum! Gave you his word. And what’s the word of 
a night-riding thief worth, eh, madam?” 

“Naught, as a rule. Yet I think this man’s word is 
worth as much as—as—well, shall we say yours, uncle?” 
she replied sweetly. 

“By Jupiter! madam, you flatter me,” cried the Colonel, 
with heavy sarcasm. 

“Would you not have taken his word, uncle?” she 
snapped suddenly. 

But before the Colonel could reply, Harry, who had 
stood in acute discomfort during the colloquy, indiscreetly 
stepped into the breach. 

“ ’Pon my soul and honor, sir, Averill’s right, b’jove,” 
he said. “Just take a look at the fellow. He’s most 
cursed dirty, of course, but he’s honest; ya can tell it by 
his eyes.” 

“Honest, you fool!” roared the Colonel, glaring at the 
viscount. “Do honest men hold up carriages and abduct 
women? Tchah!” 

“No, no; of course not,” replied Harry hastily. “But 
wdiat I mean was that-” 

“I don’t care a tiny damn what you meant! And I 
don’t need your interference, either, you busybody. What 
are you doing here, anyway?” 

“Why, surely, Colonel, ya are forgetting that I came 
with ya to see if I could give ya a clue to ya’ prisoner’s 
identity, what?” said Harry mendaciously. 

“ ’Twas kind of you,” declared the Colonel satirically. 



CHANGE—AND THE WOMAN 119 

“Well, here he is; take a good look at him. D’ye know 
him?” 

Harry stared down at Stephen with languid eyes which 
betrayed nothing beyond the mild curiosity of a complete 
stranger; and as he met their steady, unwavering regard 
Stephen began to revise his estimatb of his friend’s wit, 
which had hitherto been of none too flattering a character. 

“Are you going to stand gaping there all day?” cried 
the Colonel irritably, as Harry made no immediate reply 
to his question. “Do you know him or don’t you?” 

“Never set eyes on him in my life before.” Harry lied 
with an air of careless boredom which was entirely con¬ 
vincing to most of those present. 

“Of course you didn’t, you ninny,” said the Colonel con¬ 
temptuously. “I could have told you that without your 
coming here poking your ugly nose into matters which don’t 
concern you. You are too nice, too pretty, too much of a 
damned nincompoop to be acquainted with aught so low or 
so bold as a cutpurse, my lord.” 

A slow flush started to dye the young man’s cheeks, and 
he quivered perceptibly under the lash of Colonel Oldfield’s 
tongue, but before he could reply a radiant figure 
broke into the midst of the group and flung a pair of eager 
arms round Averill’s neck. Harry fell back a pace, and, 
his anger forgotten, gazed in admiration at the laughing 
face that was held up to receive Averill’s kiss. 

“Good morning, everybody. How dare you leave me 
to breakfast alone, Colonel?” cried the newcomer gaily, but 
with her wonderful grey eyes fixed on Harry—to that young 
man’s manifest confusion and secret delight. “Why all 
so solemn on such a beautiful day? And what do you here? 
Is’t an inquest or something, Colonel ?” Her questions came 
one on top of another; and when at length she stopped for 
an answer she shook her jet black curls at Harry, and, 
turning suddenly, seized the Colonel round the neck and 


120 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


kissed him full on his angry mouth. She did not appear 
to notice Stephen, who sat watching the group with some 
amusement. 

“No, ’tis not an inquest, Sylvia,” laughed Averill, 
answering for the Colonel, whose face showed all the 
symptoms of a violent inward struggle between his rage 
at Harry’s pertinacity and his pleasure in Sylvia’s arrival. 
“I have just been giving this poor fellow his breakfast.” 

“La! is this one of those desperate men who held us 
up last night?” cried Sylvia, taking a step towards 
Stephen, and gazing at him in mock affright but with eyes 
dancing. “How could you do it, sir? Two poor unpro¬ 
tected women. For shame, sir!” 

“Nay, nay, Sylvia, not unprotected, surely,” protested 
the Colonel. “You are forgetting me, aren’t you?” 

“How could I forget anyone so gallant, sir?” she asked, 
with an archness that made the old man positively beam 
with pride and importance. “But I’ll wager this dreadful 
ruffian thought we were unprotected. Confess, sir. Isn’t 
that what you thought?” 

“Indeed, no, madam. I knew Colonel Oldfield was 
there, but I was unaware until this moment that the Lady 
Averill had another travelling companion of her own sex 
—though I must have been blind to overlook one so charm¬ 
ing,” answered Stephen, the twinkle in his eyes matching 
hers. 

“Fie, sir! you mustn’t pay me compliments,” she chided 
him, pursing her lips. “I took good care you didn’t see 
me. I made myself as small as ever I could, and hid be¬ 
hind the Colonel. But suppose you had known that I was 
there. Would you have tried to carry me off as well as 
Averill?” 

Stephen laughed. “I’ faith, madam, I could scarce have 
managed two of you—but I doubt not that one of my 
friends would have been only too willing to essay the task,” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 121 

he added, with a sudden glance at Harry which made that 
young man blush most unaccountably. 

Sylvia clapped her hands. “How delightfully romantic!” 
she cried ecstatically. “And what would you have done 
with us when-” 

But here Colonel Oldfield thought it time to interfere. 

“Come, come, Sylvia, you must not bandy words with 
this fellow,” he said importantly. 

“But I like him,” objected Sylvia, with a pout. 

“Like him!” ejaculated the astonished Colonel. “You 
like him—-a dirty rogue like that? Gad’s blades! what 
are women coming to? Apparently Averill likes him, 
too, judging by the amount of good food she’s wasted on 
him—not to mention Lord Alverford, who has ventured 
the fool opinion that he looks honest!” 

Sylvia turned to Harry, and dropped him a courtsey. 
“Are you Lord Alverford, then?” she queried, with a 
demureness that was belied by her roguish glance. 

“I—er—well, of course—er—yes, I am,” said Harry 
lamely. 

“Forgive me, both of you,” interposed Averill penitently. 
“I had forgot, in the confusion of the moment, that you 
were not already acquainted. Viscount Alverford—Miss 
Sylvia Ravenscourt. Sylvia is come to stay with us for 
some weeks, Harry, so you will doubtless meet often. Harry 
is a very old friend of mine, Sylvia.” 

“Tchah! Friend, did ye say?” growled her uncle. 
“Lapdog would be nearer the mark.” 

Stephen, in the role of unwilling spectator, observed that 
when Averill spoke of Harry as an old friend a quick 
shadow darkened Sylvia’s charming face, and that she sub¬ 
mitted Averill to a sharp scrutiny from under her dark 
lashes. But she was evidently reassured by what she saw, 
for she turned to Harry with a radiant smile, and said: 

“I shall hope to be admitted to your friendship also, 
sir. And I would have the Colonel know that I am very 


122 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


fond of dogs—yes, and bears, too,” she added, with a 
delicious moue at the Colonel. “But I am forgetting. Sir 
Randolph Gorst has arrived, and is consumed with a fever 
to see Averill.” 

Colonel Oldfield raised his eyebrows. “And what the 
deuce does he want to see Averill about, eh?” he asked. 

“Indeed, sir, and I do not know; I did not ask him,” 
she answered meekly. “Doubtless he seeks a cure for the 
megrims, or maybe he desires her to match a ribbon for 
him.” 

“Humph!” The Colonel suspected that she was 
laughing at him, but her eyes were veiled and her demure 
face betrayed nothing. “I expect he has come to see after 
the prisoners—er—that is, prisoner. ’Tis me he wants to 
see, not Averill. Let us return to the house. Good day to 
you, Alverford; we shall not require your valuable services 
further.” 

“Oh! but you mustn’t send Lord Alverford away like 
that,” cried Sylvia, clasping her two hands round the 
Colonel’s arm and turning a pleading face to his. “I have 
heard so much about him, and have such a lot of questions 
to ask him. And I want him to teach me to throw a fly— 
unless he has something better to do. Averill tells me he 
is a wonderful fisherman.” 

“I—er—I am—er—entirely at ya’ service, now and at 
all times, Miss Ravenscourt,” declared the enchanted Harry. 
“But—er—I haven’t got a rod with me, b’jove.” 

“Poof! That does not matter,” she cried airily. “When 
he has got rid of Sir Randolph Gorst and his poor prisoner, 
Colonel Oldfield will lend you one, won’t you, Colonel?” 

The Colonel blasphemed under his breath. “All right. 
Have it your own way, miss,” he grunted. “Sergeant, 
tie up that vagabond again. And you, Dixon, see that the 
Sergeant does it properly. And don’t leave him, either 
of you, until he is safe in the High Constable’s hands.” 

He turned away towards the house, with Sylvia still 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


123 


clinging to his arm and Harry following in their wake. 
But Averill lingered. 

“Remember that your promise no longer holds, sir,” 
she said in a clear voice to Stephen. “As soon as I am 
gone you may do as you please, even though I should 
chance to return.” 

“What’s that, madam?” called the Colonel sharply, 
stopping short and turning on his heel. “Are you inciting 
the prisoner to escape? If so, you may spare your breath, 
for there’s no freedom for him this side of Darnchester gaol, 
let me tell you.” 

Averill made no reply, but ere she departed she favored 
Stephen with a smile that made him momentarily indifferent 
to the bonds which the Sergeant was industriously replacing. 


CHAPTER IX 


IN WHICH SIR RANDOLPH SHOWS HIS HAND MORE PLAINLY 
THAN IS WISE 

UT SHOULD be lacking in frankness, Colonel, if I re- 
frained from telling you that I view the escape of this 
prisoner as a very serious matter.” 

Having delivered himself of this unctuous statement, 
Sir Randolph leaned back in his chair with a virtuous 
expression on his face which accorded ill with his reputation. 
Mr. Crisp, the High Constable, a pursy, sycophantic little 
man who obviously regarded the baronet as a very import¬ 
ant personage indeed, nodded his agreement, and did his 
best to assume an expression which would convince Colonel 
Oldfield, who chanced to be a justice of the peace, that 
here was an official zealous to a fault in his devotion to his 
duties. 

But the Colonel, to whose nerves the events of the 
morning had been more than a little trying, was not in the 
mood to be called to task. 

“I don’t care a damn for your views, Sir Randolph,” 
he said curtly. “I’d have you know that I am a soldier, 
not a gaoler.” 

“Quite so, sir, quite so,” interposed Mr. Crisp fussily. 
“But you forget, sir, that the prisoners were left in your 
charge, and-” 

“I forget nothing, sir,” snapped the Colonel. “By whose 
orders were they locked up in my summer-house, yours or 
mine? Answer me that.” 

“Mine, sir, mine, of course. But-” 

124 




CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


125 


“But nothing, sir. ’Twas a piece of damned impertin¬ 
ence on your part to foist your confounded prisoners on to 
me, and heaven knows why I consented to such an arrange¬ 
ment. But I should like to know for what purpose you 
left them here. What was your object, eh?” 

“There was no object other than safety, Colonel Old¬ 
field/’ replied the High Constable, somewhat puzzled by 
the question. “The night was very wild and dark, and 
we were a long way from Darnchester, and Sir Randolph 
thought it wiser-” 

“And what the devil had Sir Randolph to do with it?” 
asked the Colonel sharply. “Do you take your instructions 
from him, pray?” 

“No, certainly not,” said Mr. Crisp hastily, beginning 
to feel decidedly bewildered by the Colonel’s unexpected 
antagonism. “But, as I said, the night was dark-” 

“Tchah! Spare me such fool explanations. Why, 
man, you had enough men with you to ensure the safety 
of a dozen prisoners, let alone two. Have you no better 
explanation to offer, Sir Randolph?” 

“None, sir,” said the baronet, with an assumption of 
easy nonchalance. “At night one is apt to take precau¬ 
tions which, examined by the cold light of day, appear to 
be a trifle elaborate.” 

“By Jupiter! yours were elaborate, anyway,” scoffed 
the Colonel. “I have raided the enemy’s lines with fewer 
men than you had at your command—aye, and raided them 
successfully, too. However, I tell you flatly, sir, that I 
believe you are deliberately deceiving me as to the true 
motive for your action. And, furthermore, I don’t see how 
you came to be mixed up in the matter at all, Gorst.” 

Sir Randolph stared at the Colonel with eyes full of re¬ 
proachful astonishment. “Methought I explained that last 
night,” he said, rather stiffly. “ ’Twas my good fortune 
to get wind of the plot to abduct your niece and to be able 
to frustrate it. That my methods of doing so do not meet 



126 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


with your approval is unfortunate, sir, but I should have 
thought that you would at least have been a little grateful 
for my action.” 

“So I am,” declared the Colonel ungraciously; “but that’s 
not the point. I can’t understand why you were in com¬ 
mand, instead of Crisp.” 

“That’s our business,” said Sir Randolph curtly. Then, 
tardily remembering that it was not politic for him to 
antagonize Averill’s guardian, he continued: “But perhaps 
the thing does appear strange, after all. You see, sir, 
Crisp thought that, as I was in possession of the facts at 
first hand, it would be better if I took control until we had 
laid the ruffians by the heels. That was all.” 

“Humph!” grunted the Colonel, with undisguised 
scepticism. “Well, all I can say is that you were not too 
successful as a leader, sir.” 

“Not successful!” exclaimed the baronet. “You 
amaze me, sir! We rescued you from your predicament 
and took two of your assailants captive. What more do 
you want?” 

“You let one of ’em get clear,” persisted the Colonel 
obstinately. “And, what’s more, you tied up another of 
’em so badly that he managed to free himself, and if 
it hadn’t been for my timely arrival he’d have released his 
companion, too. Is that your idea of success, Sir Randolph ?” 

But Gorst was by this time inwardly boiling with rage, 
and, fearful lest his anger should get the better of him, he 
made no reply. He had been intensely mortified to learn, 
on his arrival at the Colonel’s house, that one of the prisoners 
had escaped. This might, and probably would, prove 
disastrous to his plans, and he was consumed with 
impatience to find out which of the twain had got away. 

Miss Ravenscourt, who had been the first person he had 
met in the house, could tell him nothing; and the Colonel, 
when he at last appeared, declared that he “didn’t know 
t’other from which,” and that he could not see that it 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


127 


made any difference which of the two remained in durance. 
So Gorst had been compelled to dissemble his burning 
curiosity as best he might, and to await the coming of the 
High Constable with what patience he could command. 

Mr. Crisp emptied his wineglass and rose to his feet. 

“With your permission, sir, ’tis time to depart,” he said, 
with a bow. “I must get this miscreant behind bolts and 
bars without further delay.” 

“Aye, methinks ’twould be best,” agreed the Colonel 
drily. “My house was not built to accommodate gaol¬ 
birds. If you will follow me I’ll show you where he is 
lodged.” 

He led the way to the loose-box, followed by Mr. Crisp 
and Sir Randolph. The High Constable’s men, six in 
number, had dismounted, and, having made short work 
of the foaming ale with which the Colonel’s hospitality 
had provided them, they were now lounging about in the 
vicinity of their horses. 

“You haven’t got too many men, Crisp,” grumbled Sir 
Randolph in an undertone, eyeing the group with a scowl. 

“More than enough, Sir Randolph, particularly now 
that we have only one prisoner,” said the High Constable 
airily. Truth to tell, Mr. Crisp had been torn between 
his desire to show himself a hardy fellow in the eyes of the 
Colonel and a prudent one in those of Sir Randolph. So, 
like most men of his type, he had compromised, and brought 
with him six men; but these had been carefully chosen for 
their task, and a more villainous-looking set it would have 
been hard to find. They looked infinitely more like law¬ 
breakers than pillars of the State, and their sinister 
appearance somewhat consoled Sir Randolph for what he 
considered their lack of numbers. 

“There you are, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, as Dixon 
opened the door of the loose-box and revealed Stephen 
reclining on a pile of hay. “The sooner you relieve me of 
my charge the better I shall be pleased.” 


128 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


The High Constable stepped forward importantly 
and began to issue his orders. “Henderson, release his legs 
but leave his arms bound. Now stand up, you”—this to 
Stephen—“and look sharp about it. You’ll move a bit 
quicker, my man, before I’ve done with you. Outside 
with you.” 

Stephen strode into the yard, and, stopping in front of 
Sir Randolph, whose satisfaction that he was not the man 
who had escaped showed plain in his face, stood regarding 
him with eyes so baleful that the baronet involuntarily 
recoiled a pace. But he quickly recovered himself, and, 
turning to Mr. Crisp, said sharply: “Those cords want 
seeing to, or he’ll have ’em loose ere you get to Darnchester. 
Here, you,” he called to one of the men; “bind his wrists 
afresh, and bind ’em tight.” 

“You scum!” said Stephen, under his breath. “You 
filthy scum!” 

White with sudden rage—rage made more fierce by his 
consciousness of the ignoble part he played—Sir Randolph 
raised the heavy riding-whip which he carried and struck 
with all his force at Stephen. But the latter, half antici¬ 
pating the blow, twisted suddenly, with the result that, 
although the lash wound round his shoulders, it caused him 
little discomfort. 

“Perhaps that’ll teach you to keep a civil tongue in 
your head, you insolent hound,” snarled Gorst, only 
restrained from a second blow by the contempt which he 
saw in Colonel Oldfield’s face. “Get him away, Crisp, 
lest one of the ladies should appear and he should insult 
her as he insulted me.” 

“Where’s that spare horse, Kellett?” shouted the 
officious Mr. Crisp. 

The man addressed led forward the mare which Stephen 
had ridden yesternight and curtly ordered him to mount. 
But, trussed as he was, this was no easy task. He looked 
expectantly at Kellett, but as that individual offered him 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


129 


no help he contrived to get his left foot into the stirrup 
unaided. But as his right foot left the ground in his spring 
the mare moved sideways, and Stephen, failing to reach 
the saddle, fell heavily against Kellett. The latter, 
following the example of his superior, swore horribly, and 
smote Stephen on the ear with clenched fist. 

“Oh, you cowards! You cowards!” Stephen picked 
himself up from the cobblestones, upon which he had 
measured his length, to find Lady Averill, a picture of right¬ 
eous indignation, standing at the entrance to the stable 
yard. “For shame, Sir Randolph! First you strike your 
prisoner with your whip, and then look calmly on whilst 
one of your dreadful men fells him to the ground. Have 
you no mercy, no compassion? I wonder would you have 
dared thus if the poor fellow’s hands had been free. ’Tis 
easy to be brave when one’s opponent is helpless, sir.” 

“You wrong me, Lady Averill,” protested Sir Randolph, 
crimson with confusion and shame. “The fellow insulted 
me, and my temper is quick. But there was no excuse 
for Kellett’s action, and I promise you he shall be fitly 
punished.” 

“There was more excuse for him than for .you, sir,” said 
Averill frigidly. “He did but follow your lead, in the hope 
of currying favor with you. Tike master like man,’ is a 
proverb in these parts, sir. And as for you, uncle,” she 
continued, turning to the Colonel, “I am ashamed of you. 
How can you stand by and see such things done without a 
protest ?” 

“By Jupiter! madam, you scarce gave me time to protest, 
did you?” said the colonel drily. “Being a woman, you 
are a thought quicker in the uptake than I am. But let 
that pass. I am quite as ashamed as you are that such 
brutality should be the lot of anyone who sojourns either 
willingly or unwillingly within my gates, and”—to Stephen 
—“I offer you my apologies, sir.” 

“You have naught for which to apologize, Colonel 


130 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Oldfield,” said Stephen courteously. “A gentleman 
cannot forestall the action of a cad, sir, for the simple reason 
that it is impossible for his mind to conceive that action.” 

“Have a care, sirrah,” cried Sir Randolph, touched on 
the raw by his prisoner’s contemptuous remark. “You 
shall pay dearly for that word ere you are much older.” 

“Pay, shall I?” said Stephen, with a sudden gust of 
passion. “Let me tell you this, Randolph Gorst. I vow 
that, once I regain my freedom, I will thrash you within an 
inch of your worthless life. Do you hear?” 

“Aye, I hear.” Sir Randolph laughed easily. “If you 
carry out your threat, methinks ’twill be in thq next world, 
not in this. You have robbed your last coach, my friend, 
and the only freedom you are likely to know is when the 
gallows rope releases your soul from your body.” 

“I shouldn’t be too confident of that, Sir Randolph,” 
Averill broke in again, with quiet significance. “The task 
of proving a wrongdoer’s guilt is sometimes both difficult 
and embarrassing to the informer.” 

Gorst again flushed darkly; but here Mr. Crisp, who was 
growing impatient, thought it time to assert himself. 

“Come, come, we are wasting time,” he said fussily. 
“Kellett, help the prisoner into his saddle.” Kellett 
sulkily obeyed. “That’s it. Now tie his feet together 
beneath his horse’s belly.” 

“Is that necessary?” cried Averill sharply. 

“I consider it advisable, madam,” said Mr. Crisp, with 
an indulgent smile. “I dare not take any more risks.” 

Stephen’s feet having been securely linked together, the 
High Constable and his men got to horse, and the party 
moved out of the stable yard. Mr. Crisp lingered to address 
a few perfunctory words of thanks to the Colonel for his 
hospitality, and then, turning to Gorst, whose horse was 
being walked back and forth by a groom, he called: 

“Aren’t you coming along with me, Sir Randolph? I 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 131 

shall want you to swear the depositions against this man, 
and you might as well do it at once.” 

But Sir Randolph was not given the opportunity to 
reply. Alverford, to his disgust, had not been admitted to 
Colonel Oldfield’s interview with the High Constable and 
Gorst, and he had consoled himself with the companionship 
of Miss Sylvia Ravenscourt. She would have had him find 
a rod then and there and go down to the river to teach her 
to fish, and at any other time he would have been only too 
ready to conform to her wishes. But he had work to do. 
He had promised that he would endeavor to delay the 
High Constable, and although he did not see how this was 
to be done, he was determined to neglect no opportunity 
of attempting it. 

With this purpose in mind he ensconced himself near a 
window which overlooked the main drive, and when the 
Colonel and his companions left the house to seek their 
prisoner, he promptly suggested to Sylvia that it would be 
interesting to go outside again to watch the escort depart. 
She eagerly fell in with his proposal, and together they 
walked across to the stables. Once there, Sylvia’s incon¬ 
sequent chatter entirely precluded the evolution in Harry’s 
brain of a plan whereby he might accomplish his object, with 
the result that the departure of the prisoner and his 
escort found him helpless. 

But the High Constable’s invitation to Sir Randolph to 
accompany him gave him an idea. He could at least 
prevent Gorst’s accepting it, and that would make one man 
less to fight in the event of force being used to encompass 
Stephen’s escape, besides depriving Mr. Crisp, who Harry 
conjectured was an incompetent fool, of Gorst’s resourceful 
brain. 

So, with a quick word of excuse to Sylvia, and before Sir 
Randolph could reply to the High Constable, he stepped 
forward and called: 


132 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“No, Sir Randolph isn’t coming with ya, Crisp. I’ve a 
word or two to say to him that won’t wait, b’jove.” 

The High Constable had not hitherto been aware of 
Lord Alderford’s presence, and he now swept off his hat 
with a flourish and bowed profoundly. 

“Quite so, your lordship, quite so,” he said effusively, 
his sycophantic abasement almost toppling him out of his 
saddle. “My business with Sir Randolph can very well 
wait, your lordship, very well indeed. Only too pleased 
to be able to oblige your lordship. It isn’t every day that 
one has such a privilege. Good day to you, your lordship; 
your very humble servant. Good day, Sir Randolph; I 
will communicate with you later.” And with another bow 
and flourish he put very gentle spurs to his horse and ambled 
away in the wake of his men. 

“My carriage waits, Randolph,” said Harry languidly, 
but with a steely glint in his eye that Gorst did not fail to 
observe. “Pray accompany me.” 

“Impossible, Harry,” returned Gorst. “As you see, I 
have my horse here.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” said Harry. “Ya can send a 
groom over for him later.” 

“But ’tis most unconvenient, Harry,” objected Gorst. 
“I am going-” 

“I’m afraid I must insist.” Then in low tones, which 
were intended only for Sir Randolph’s ear, he said calmly: 
“ ’Twill pay ya best to do as I ask, Gorst. If ya object 
further I’ll tell the Colonel all I know, ’pon my soul and 
honor I will, and that at once.” 

Sir Randolph started in alarm. “You surely wouldn’t 
be such a fool,” he growled incredulously. 

“My good man, everybody knows I am a fool,” retorted 
Harry coolly. “If ya doubt it, ask the Colonel; he’ll tell ya.” 

Muttering an imprecation, Sir Randolph turned away, 
and with the best grace he could muster made his adieux. 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 133 

Then he stalked out of the yard and took his seat in the 
carriage which stood ready to depart. 

Within a minute or two Harry joined him, and the 
carriage began to roll on its cumbersome way. Almost 
immediately the viscount leaned forward, and, staring fixed¬ 
ly into the eyes of his companion, he said in a voice 
that Sir Randolph had never before heard issue from his lips: 

“Well, what have ya to say for ya’self, ya damned 
traitor?” 

“Say for myself?” He laughed contemptuously. 
“Nothing, my friend; nothing at all.” 

“Nothing, eh? We’ll see about that.” Harry’s mouth 
set in hard, stern lines which frankly amazed his com¬ 
panion. “I’ll have ya hounded out of the country for last 
night’s work, burn me and blister me if I don’t—aye, and 
out of all decent society as well, ya knave!” 

Sir Randolph leaned back comfortably in his seat and 
smiled easily. “I think not, Harry,” he said. “You-” 

“Lord Alverford, if ya please, Sir Randolph Gorst,” 
interposed Harry, with studied insolence of manner. 

The other flushed. “As you will,” he said, with a not 
very successful assumption of indifference. “Your friend¬ 
ship is no longer of use to me, and, to be candid, you bore 
me most damnably. Nevertheless, I would counsel you 
not to be so unwise as to tell everything you know as to the 
events of last night.” 

“And why shouldn’t I? Do ya think I am going to 
let Steve remain in such a pestilent position without raising 
a finger?” 

“Bah! Let him rot in gaol. What concern is it of 
yours?” 

Very deliberately Harry raised his quizzing glass and 
through it eyed his companion incredulously. “Gad! 
ya positively bewilder me, b’jove,” he drawled. “Are 
ya utterly shameless?” 

“In this instance, yes, I am shameless. I hate Burgoyne 



134 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


as the devil hates holy water. Long ago I swore to be 
even with him for a dirty, underhand trick he played me, 
and I have kept my word, damn him. He will hang, and 
’tis all he is fit for, the upstart puppy.” 

“Please spare me your abuse of my friend, Sir Randolph,” 
said Harry coldly. “Frankly, I do not believe ya. I know 
Steve too well to deem him capable of an underhand trick.” 

“You think you know him, but believe me you don’t. 
Buck Burgoyne will stoop to aught that will serve his ends. 
What does he in Bolderburn? Answer me that.” 

“Ya know the reason as well as I do. He is here because 
his horse went lame on his journey south, and he-” 

“A fairy tale that would not deceive a babe!” interjected 
Gorst, with a sneer. 

“ ’Tis no fairy tale. I have seen the nag with my own 
eyes, b’jove.” 

“Oh, I don’t question his horse’s lameness,” said Sir 
Randolph impatiently. “But doesn’t it strike you as strange 
that such an accident should happen so conveniently close to 
Lady Averill Stapleton’s home?” 

“What the devil do ya mean, sir?” cried Harry angrily. 

“My meaning is obvious. Burgoyne deliberately con¬ 
trived that lameness to give him a plausible excuse for lin¬ 
gering here so that he might be near Lady Averill.” 

“Hum!” The assertion appeared to give Harry food 
for thought, and for awhile he sat with puckered brow. 
Then he said: “And even supposing that what ya say 

is true—\Vhat of it?” 

“What of it?” echoed Sir Randolph, in astonishment. 
“Damme, sir, but one might think you had no brains at 
all! Don’t you see that he is a suitor for the lady’s hand ?” 

“Maybe so, but, as I say, what of it?” repeated Harry 
blandly. 

“For heaven’s sake don’t talk like a damned parrot,” 
cried Gorst, exasperated almost beyond endurance by what 
he believed to be the other’s lack of comprehension. “If 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


135 


Burgoyne be in earnest as I am convinced he is, you will find 
him no mean rival. Famous, wealthy, handsome, and a 
friend of the Prince himself, the finest lady in the land 
might well think twice ere she refused him—even if there did 
happen to be a viscount at hand ready and willing to console 
her for his loss.” 

“Ya state the case to a nicety, and I can see no flaw in 
it.” Harry yawned prodigiously. “But, dooce take it, 
ya forget that I have no right whatever to object if Averill 
should choose Steve instead of me. Of course, I should be 
plaguey upset and all that,” he continued hastily, “but 
I should have to make the best of it.” 

“Yes, yes, but that’s not the point,” argued Sir Ran¬ 
dolph irascibly. “As long as Burgoyne remains in gaol 
you have a clear field, and if he be hanged—well, ’twill be 
one rival the less.” 

“Gad, Gorst! ya are the most unscrupulous villain it 
has ever been my luck to meet,” declared Harry, gazing 
at his companion with eyes full of admiring wonder. 

“I am nothing of the kind,” protested the other. “But 
as your friend, I fail to see why you should put yourself 
out for Burgoyne’s sake. I tell you that he came here 
with the deliberate intention of winning Lady Averill from 
you, and he deceived you with a cock-and-bull story of a 
lame horse. Was that a friendly act?” 

Harry made no reply, and Gorst, thinking that his 
arguments were having their effect, proceeded eagerly: 

“What good could you do if, as you have threatened, 
you tell all you know? For one thing, nobody would 
believe your story.” 

“Oh, yes, they would, b’jove. Everybody hereabouts 
knows that I am not half clever enough to invent such a 
tale.” Harry said this with as much complacence as 
another man might have shown in justly proclaiming him¬ 
self the cleverest fellow in all England. 

“Well, even so, how would you benefit?” questioned 


136 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Gorst, quick to see his advantage. “If you were believed, 
then you would be promptly arrested to stand your trial 
alongside Burgoyne, and, with all your influence, your 
plight would be a sorry one. On the other hand, I should 
go scot free, for, far from committing a crime, I have been 
instrumental in preventing one.” 

“Ya would reap the scorn and contempt of all decent 
men,” Harry reminded him coldly. 

The other winced perceptibly, and he summoned to his 
aid a touch of bravado. “That is by no means certain,” 
he said airily. “The tale as I should tell it would discredit 
you, not me, Lord Alverford. And I think I could make 
it sufficiently convincing. The world is always more ready 
to believe the accuser than the accused, you know.” 

“Aye, I grant that scandal finds a readier welcome than 
truth, even in the most blameless households,” agreed Harry. 
“But fortunately the law demands proof. However, ’tis 
a profitless discussion. My mind is made up.” 

Sir Randolph sneered openly. “ ’Tis news to me that 
you possess such a thing as a mind,” he said insolently. 

“Is’t indeed?” returned Harry indifferently. “Well, I 
hope ya will ponder the news; ’twere a wise thing to do.” 

“I don’t think I shall trouble, sir. In any case the 
workings of the mind of one who is but half-witted are 
difficult for a sane man to follow.” 

Harry’s temper snapped suddenly, and Gorst saw the 
knuckles of his clenched hands stand out milk-white. 

“By God, Gorst, but ya go too far!” he said tensely. 
“Listen to me. Steve Burgoyne will neither hang nor rot 
in gaol. There is one factor of the situation that, with all 
ya’ damned cunning, ya have forgotten, and that is the man 
ya hired to take ya’ place. Ah! that makes ya think, does 
it, b’jove? And mark my words; ya will have good cause 
to think, and to think dooced hard, ere you are much older, 
ya blackguard.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 137 

The other’s only reply was a yawn which, as was intended, 
added fuel to the flames of the young man’s wrath. 

“And before we part, Sir Randolph Gorst, let me warn 
ya to keep out of my way in the future. ’Twas no idle 
threat I made when I said I would hound ya out of society, 
as ya will find; if ever ya venture into any company in 
which I chance to be, I’ll insult ya before ’em all.” 

Gorst’s eyes narrowed, and he laughed dangerously. 
“I think not, my little cock-sparrow,” he said. “Insults 
must be paid for, and you would be well advised to count 
the cost beforehand.” 

“Ya mean I should have to fight ya?” 

“Of course.” 

“I think not. Gentlemen, are only compelled to fight 
gentlemen, and I regret to say that I don’t consider ya as 
such.” 

Sir Randolph went white with anger. “The coward’s 
usual excuse!” he countered, with an ugly sneer. “You 
doubtless know that my pistol is said to shoot passing 
straight. But public opinion would force you to the combat, 
my pretty craven; remember that.” 

“Oh, ’tis not ya’ pistol’s accuracy that troubles me; 
’tis ya’ despicable character.” 

“You little rat!” cried Gorst. “Do you think you 
can frighten me?” He laughed harshly. “Why, you 
brainless dolt, you cannot see beyond the end of your nose, 
so ’tis little cause I have to fear you. The boot is on the 
other leg, my friend. You think that you are going to 
marry Lady Averili Stapleton, you presumptuous imbecile, 
but you are vastly mistaken. She will marry me. Do 
you hear ? Me, I say. I will get her though all the fiends 
of hell bar my way; so look out, your lordship. ’Twill go 
hard with the man who tries to stay me.” 

Harry stared at Sir Randolph in incredulous disgust. 

“Averili marry you!” he breathed. “God forbid! 
An angel and a satyr.” 


138 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Satyr or no, Fll wed her,” cried Gorst grimly. “Either 
that or Ill ruin her.” 

Harry sat silent for a moment; then he laughed con¬ 
temptuously, but there was a note of uneasiness in his 
laughter. “I think the matter can safely be left in Averill’s 
hands,” he said. “She would be more likely to wed her 
groom than you, b’jove. Ya will have little chance of carry¬ 
ing out ya’ threat, methinks.” 

“Be not too sure, your lordship. That chance has already 
been mine, but I neglected it—perhaps foolishly.” 

“Ya are lying, Gorst,” returned Harry contemptuously. 

“Am I? You have forgotten last night, then. Why, 
man, had the original scheme been carried out I had been 
half way to Gretna with her by now.” 

“Ya—ya—what the devil do ya mean?” cried Harry. 

“What I say. You thought the affair a frolic that would 
better your prospects with her, and that I was merely 
abetting you. You poor fool! ’Twas I who would have 
carried her off, not you; and that would have been the last 
you had seen of her until she was my wife for good and all. 
But I thought better of it. Upon reflection, I decided that, 
for the nonce, the role of rescuer would suit me better than 
that of abductor, and so I changed my plans. Your lord- 
ship will, I am sure, appreciate that it was not possible for 
me to acquaint you with the change.” 

“Gad! ya pollute the very air ya breathe,” exclaimed 
Harry, aghast at Gorst’s sneering and boastful confession 
of his villainy. “Luckily we are come to the village, and 
I must ask ya to relieve me of ya’ company.” He stopped 
the carriage, and, without protest, Sir Randolph alighted 
and stood regarding him with a contemptuous smile on his 
face. 

“Aye, smile, Gorst, smile whilst ya have the opportunity. 
Ya will have precious little cause for merriment anon,” 
prophesied Harry, as he signalled his coachman to proceed. 


CHAPTER X 


RELATES WHAT CHANCED ON THE WAY TO DARNCHESTER 
GAOL 

A MULTITUDE of conflicting thoughts fought for the 
mastery in Stephen’s mind as he jogged along uncom¬ 
fortably in the midst of his escort. The shame of his position, 
which assailed him afresh every time the eyes of a passer-by 
rested upon him, was temporarily forgotten as he recalled 
the kindness of Lady Averill and the faith which, for no 
apparent reason, she appeared to have in him. The recollec¬ 
tion of her beauty and her trust thrilled him; and he knew 
that, although he had seen her but twice, she had stamped 
upon his mind an impression that only death itself could 
efface. 

Yet what a fool he was to let his thoughts dwell upon her! 
Was he not a prisoner, a malefactor captured red-handed 
in his crime, condemned already to lie in gaol for an 
indefinite period and to have his infamy published to the 
world? It was even possible—nay, vastly probable—that 
he would expiate his sins on the scaffold; indeed, he opined 
that nothing short of a miracle could save him from such a 
fate. Highway robbery and abduction were crimes punish¬ 
able with death, and the law was rightly merciless in its 
vengeance in such cases. His social position and his wealth 
would probably avail him little, and in any case transporta¬ 
tion was the lightest punishment for which he could hope. 

But from these depths of despair he was lifted a little 
by the memory of Alverford’s visit to his prison-house. 
Harry was not there by accident; of that he was sure. 

139 


140 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


He came for a reason that was not obvious, but certainly 
that reason was not the one which he had voiced to Colonel 
Oldfield. And his acting had been decidedly clever—far 
cleverer than anyone who knew him would have believed 
possible—and he had contrived to combine it with his usual 
foppish inanity in a manner that must have dispelled any 
suspicion as to his motives that the Colonel or his household 
may have harbored. 

Furthermore, there was Carless’s promise to brighten the 
outlook. But when Stephen considered the strength of the 
High Constable’s party, he abandoned hope in this direction. 
Once the prison gates closed behind him, he knew that 
Carless could do nothing for him, and he felt certain that 
he would never dream of adopting the desperate expedient of 
an attempted rescue by force on the public highway in broad 
daylight. 

But his musings were at length cut short by the High Con¬ 
stable’s reining in his horse and commanding his men to halt. 

Drawn up by the roadside Stephen saw, a travelling 
tinker’s cart, to the shafts of which was harnessed a donkey. 
On the side of the cart was displayed a large white placard, 
bearing, in block letters Very badly printed by hand, the 
legend: 

WILLIAM NOBLETT 

HARDWARE DEALER 

PATERNIZED BY THE NOBILITY AND GENTERY 

The tinker himself was kneeling almost under his donkey’s 
nose, and was supporting on one knee the head of an appar¬ 
ently unconscious man, whose sombre attire proclaimed him 
to be a clergyman. The latter’s eyes were closed, and the 
tinker, at whose side stood a tin pail half full of water, was 
bathing his pale face with a piece of rag, and talking dili¬ 
gently to his patient in an undertone the while. 

“Come on, now; open yer peepers, mister. Let’s ’ave 
a look at yer bonny blue eyes. Lyin’ on yer back on the 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


141 


cold ground ain’t good for yer, d’ye ’ear? Lor’ love me 
boots! you’ll be getting skyattic’s or rheumatics or some’at 
o’ that sort if ye ain’t quick. If only I’d a drop o’ rum, now, 
or even a sup o’ good French brandy, I’d ’ave ye as right 
as a trivet in no time. Though ’appen it’s better not,” he 
continued dubiously. “ ’Appen, bein’ a parson, ye wouldn’t 
thank me for pourin’ strong liquor into ye.” 

Beyond a casual glance, the tinker paid no attention to 
the little band of riders, but, as he paused in his monologue 
to damp his rag afresh, the High Constable addressed him 
sharply. 

‘‘What’s all this, my man?” he said. “Has the gentleman 
met with an accident?” 

“Accident?” echoed the tinker indignantly. “No, it 
ain’t no accident, this ain’t, swelp me! If ye arsks me, it’s 
some o’ Black Dick’s work, this ’ere.” 

Mr. Crisp started violently, and Stephen noted that the 
tinker’s reply caused a wave of excitement to ripple over 
his troop. 

“What do you mean, fellow?” asked the High Constable 
sternly. “And what do you know of Black Dick?” 

“Naught, except from hearsay,” answered the tinker 
promptly. “But I’ll lay odds as it were *im as done up 
this pore cove. A big hulking chap wiv a black marsk an’ 
a blue chin, ’e was, with the nastiest lookin’ barker, all 
cocked an’ ready, as I ever seed.” 

“You saw him!” ejaculated Mr. Crisp incredulously. 

“Aye, I seed him all right, I did. Me an’ Adam was 
behind yonder bushes a-eatin’ of our dinners, an’ I reckon 
as ’e thought the coast was clear, for ’e didn’t make no 
bones about it, but just did the job as bold as brass an’ 
as careless as you please. You ’aven’t got a drop o’ rum 
about ye, now, ’ave ye, mister?” he continued, looking 
appealing at Mr. Crisp, and then gazing anxiously at his 
patient, who showed no sign of life. “It might ’elp this 
pore parson, though it may be a bit again’ ’is principles.” 


142 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


The High Constable turned in his saddle, and gave orders 
to one of his men to relieve the tinker of his task and to 
administer a little brandy to the unconscious clergyman. 

“Now, fellow, attend to me,” he said peremptorily, 
addressing the tinker. “I am the High Constable, and 
I command you to tell me all you know of this affair.” 

The tinker rose hastily to his feet in obvious confusion, 
and taking off his battered hat, he touched his right eye¬ 
brow with his forefinger, and stood nervously shifting from 
one foot to the other. 

“Lor* love me boots! yer highness, I didn’t know ye,” 
he said, in awestruck accents, “I arsks yer highness’s 
pardon, I does, swelp me!” 

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Crisp, with affable con¬ 
descension, not ill-pleased by the exaggerated deference paid 
to his rank by the tinker. “Proceed with your story.” 

“There ain’t much more to tell, yer highness. I seed 
parson first, a-ridin’ easy from the north. Then t’other 
feller, him as I reckon is Black Dick, appeared from t’other 
way, and as soon as ’e spots parson ’e stops dead. Then 
’e wheels ’is ’orse quick into that lane there”—he pointed 
to a lane which opened at right angles off the main high¬ 
way, and which was screened from the north by a wood— 
“an’ puttin’ on a marsk ’e waits in the shadow o’ the trees 
till parson gets almost abreast of ’im. Then ’e spurs for¬ 
ward sharp, a-brandishin’ of a big barker, an’ makes parson 
’and over what looks like a packet, as ’e took out of ’is 
inside coat pocket. Dick laughs when ’e gets it; but when 
’e’d put it out o’ sight ’e did a low-down, mean thing.” 

“What was that?” 

“Why, yer highness, he shifts ’is pistol to ’is left ’and, 
an’ afore ye could say Jack Robinson ’e lams parson one 
under the jaw an’ knocks ’im flyin* out o’ the saddle into 
the road, where ’e lies still and quiet. Dick looks down 
at parson an* laughs again, and then suddenly ’e stretches 
out ’is foot an’ kicks parson’s ’orse as ’ard as ’e can. ’Orse 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


143 


turns about, feared to death, an’ sets off ’ell-for-leather back 
the way as ’e came. Dick watches ’im for a minute, then 
’e gathers up ’is reins an’ disappears.” 

“Which way did he go?” asked Mr. Crisp, displaying 
some excitement. 

“Down the lane as ’e wus ’idin’ in. An’ wot’s more, 
’e can’t ’ave got so far, neither, yer ’ighness. It’s not ten 
minutes since it ’appened, an’ I seed as the bay mare as 
’e wus ridin’ wus lame.” 

“You’re sure of that?” The High Constable’s eyes 
were alight. 

“Sure an’ certain, yer ’ighness,” replied the tinker 
emphatically. “An’ the goin’s bad down that lane. It 
leads on to the roughest part o’ the moor, an’ three or four 
men on good ’orses like these ’ere o’ yours ought to catch 
’im as easy as pie inside ’arf an hour, swelp me I ’E’ll be 
in full sight nearly all the way across the moor, an’ a lame 
’orse ain’t no good for that kind o’ country.” 

“You’re right, my good fellow. I’ve half a mind to-” 

But here the recumbent clergyman groaned, and, opening 
his eyes, he sat up suddenly and gazed around him wildly. 
Then, catching sight of Stephen sitting bound to his horse, 
his face brightened, and he cried joyously: 

“Ah, thank God! You have caught the miscreant, 
gentlemen. Oh, I am indeed grateful to you, sirs, for-” 

Mr. Crisp cut him short. “This is not the man who 
robbed you, sir,” he said, somewhat curtly. “I am the 
High Constable, and this fellow is in my custody on another 
count.” 

The light faded from the clergyman’s face, and he rose 
stiffly to his feet—a woebegone and dishevelled figure. 

“Sir, I am desolate,” he said heavily. “I had hoped— 
but no matter.” Then the cloud lifted a little from his 
smooth-shaven face, and he raised his eyes to the horse¬ 
man’s face. “If you are indeed an officer of the law, then 
you must have been sent by heaven to aid me in my travail. 



144 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


All is surely not yet lost. After him, sir, I beg of you. 
He cannot have got far. And may heaven reward you 
for your charity.” 

But Mr. Crisp was the prey of indecision. He glanced 
uneasily at his little band, at his prisoner, and then at the 
clergyman—torn between the thought of the glory that 
would be his if he laid by the heels the notorious Black Dick, 
who had so long been a thorn in the flesh of the whole 
county, and his impatience to see his prisoner safely lodged 
in gaol. 

‘‘You place me in a dilemma, sir,” he said gruffly. “I 
am charged with the duty of conveying my prisoner to gaol, 
and he is a desperate and hardened criminal with whom no 
risks may be run.” 

The clergyman stared at the escort for a moment, and 
then said eagerly: “But, sir, your prisoner is securely 

bound, and you have six men. Surely you can spare some of 
them in such a case. Oh, sir, this means ruin and perhaps 
disgrace to me. I was entrusted with the money, and gave 
my personal undertaking that it should arrive safely. And 
three hundred pounds is a huge sum.” 

“What’s that you say? Three hundred pounds?” cried 
Mr. Crisp. “Zounds I and that damned fellow got away 
with it. Curse him! Those confounded justices will 
make my life a misery when they hear of this.” His eyes 
narrowed suddenly, and he scrutinized the clergyman sus¬ 
piciously. “How came you to be carrying such a sum?” 

“Alas! I had no choice,” returned the other, almost 
tearfully. “ ’Twas part of the proceeds from the sale of 
some fat stock which had been bequeathed to the church by 
a wealthy farmer. He left it one half at the disposal of my 
bishop, and the other half to be placed with the Bishop of 
Mai ton in Cheshire, and it was the latter portion that I 
carried.” 

“’Fore gad! that makes it fifty times worse,” said Mr. 
Crisp, cursing under his breath. <f Those bishops are the 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


145 


very devil where money is concerned, and I shall never 
hear the last of it. You are sure of what you told me, 
sirrah?” he asked of the tinker. 

“Aye, that I am,” declared the tinker. “An’ beggin’ 
yer highness’s pardon, it’s easy money, is this ’ere, swelp me! 
You’ve lost a good bit o’ time, but if you acts promp’, you’ll 
catch ’im right enough. ’Is ’orse can scarce trot, an’ in the 
direction as ’e’s gone there ain’t a ’idin’-place for nigh 
fifteen miles as would cover Adam ’ere.” 

“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it,” snapped Mr. 
Crisp. “Kellett, you have heard what has been said. Take 
Jones and Birtwistle and ride like the devil. Get Black 
Dick, alive if possible—but get him, do you hear?” 

“Very good, sir,” mumbled Kellett, who was plainly not 
enamored of the task. 

Observing this, the clergyman spoke again quickly. “Gladly 
will I give twenty guineas to these good fellows if they 
capture him,” he said. “Although I am a poor man, the 
bishop will doubtless reimburse me.” 

His reluctance dispelled by this golden promise, Kellett 
spurred forward with alacrity, and, with his two companions, 
made ready to depart. 

“Us’ll get ’im if ’e’s to be got, sir,” he said grimly. 
“Shall we take ’im straight to Darnchester ?” 

“Aye, ’twill be best,” replied Mr. Crisp. “And once 
you’ve got him, spare neither whip nor spur in your going.” 

The three men saluted and cantered away down the lane; 
and as the High Constable and the remnants of his troop 
watched them go, Stephen, whose glance had wandered in 
the direction of the tinker, could have sworn that he saw 
that honest tradesman wink. But before he could gain a 
second impression that might serve to confirm the first, Mr. 
Crisp gave a sharp order, and the party prepared to move. 

“God bless you, sir!” said the clergyman with devout 
earnestness to Mr. Crisp. “May He reward you as you 
deserve. You may be sure that your good offices shall be 


146 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


brought to the notice of my bishop, and I do not doubt 
that he will see that they are handsomely recognized. He 
is a man of great influence, sir.” 

“What do you propose to do now, sir?” asked the gratified 
Mr. Crisp solicitously. “I would I had a spare horse that 
I might lend you.” 

“Oh, that matters little. ’Twill do me no harm to walk 
on to the Nag’s Head at Bolderburn. I am known to the 
landlord there, and can easily borrow a horse and the where¬ 
withal to continue my journey. For I dare not delay; I 
must seek out the Bishop of Malton at once and acquaint 
him with the unfortunate facts. If you recover the money 
I pray you send a courier to me there. I will gladly pay 
his charges. My name is Willoughby.” 

They parted from the parson and the tinker, and Mr. 
Crisp, anxious to make up the time which he had lost, 
began to set a pace which Stephen, bound as he was, found 
decidedly uncomfortable. Very soon, the thorn hedges which 
bounded the highway disappeared, and the road ahead lay 
across open ground dotted sparsely with clumps of yellow 
gorse. This Stephen took to be a part of the moor of 
which the tinker had spoken, and he looked about him, 
half expecting to catch a glimpse of the three men who 
hunted the highwayman. But hereabouts the ground was 
undulating, and he could not see farther than fifty yards or 
so either to the right or left. However, the highway itself 
was almost straight as an arrow, an& at least a mile of its 
dusty surface was visible. But there was not a soul in 
sight; the road was entirely deserted. 

Yet as Stephen’s wandering gaze focused itself upon a 
large clump of trees which topped a knoll close to the road 
about a quarter of a mile way, he thought he saw a quick 
flash of light come from their midst—such a flash as might 
be caused by the rays of the sun being reflected by polished 
metal. However, stare as he would, his keen eyes could 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 147 

detect nothing further, and a glance at his captors told him 
that they had not observed anything unusual. 

Just then his ears caught the ring of hoofs in the rear, and 
he saw Mr. Crisp turn sharply in his saddle, though without 
checking his pace. Stephen thought it wisest to show no 
interest in the sound, for he read uneasiness in the High 
Constable’s expression, and his heart bounded suddenly 
within him. 

“What do you make of those fellows behind, Bradbury?” 
queried Mr. Crisp sharply. 

The man addressed, who was riding at Stephen’s side, 
looked back over his shoulder; and after a keen scrutiny 
he answered with a nonchalance that promptly dispelled 
Stephen’s half-formed hope. 

“Two fat tradesmen, sir,” he said succinctly. 

“Hum! Maybe; but they’re riding good nags, else they 
couldn’t move at that pace,” grumbled Mr. Crisp. 

“Aye. Their hosses is all right,” agreed Bradbury. 
“But look at th’ way they sit ’em. And their clothes and 
their beards. Tradesmen, I say. No danger from yon 
sort, sir, particularly when there’s nobbut two of ’em.” 

But Mr. Crisp had good cause for his uneasiness. Pie was 
scarce ten yards from the clump of trees which Stephen had 
previously noticed when a harsh voice bade him halt, and 
a man, mounted on a big bay mare, appeared from behind 
the trees and wheeled his mount across the High Constable’s 
path. 

Taken by surprise, Mr. Crisp had much ado to check his 
steed in time to avoid a collision, and his unexpected action 
threw his troop into confusion. A second man made his 
appearance, and to Mr. Crisp’s horror and Stephen’s 
delight, they saw that the newcomers were masked, and 
that each held in his hands a pair of cocked pistols. 

“Good morning, Mr. Crisp,” remarked he who had first 
appeared—a big, well-built man with a dark face, and eyes 
that twinkled merrily behind his mask. “If either you or 


148 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


any of your subordinates make a move, I shall be regretfully 
obliged to shoot you, sir. Is that clear? And, lest one of 
your men should think his action well worth your sacrifice, 
one of my friends in your rear will shoot him. You are 
caught between two fires.” 

Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Stephen saw that the 
two men who Bradbury had dubbed tradesmen had 
ridden up close, and that they also were armed with pistols. 
Neither of them wore a mask, but their hats were pulled 
down over their eyes in such a manner that it was impossible 
to get more than a faint impression of their heavily bearded 
faces. 

“You had better empty their holsters, and then they 
will not be tempted to play tricks,” said the highwayman 
to his masked companion, who, with neatness and despatch, 
did as he was bidden. “Now, Mr. Crisp, I am sorry to 
interfere with you in the discharge of your duties, but I 
feel sure that you will recognize the necessity. You have 
in custody a very dear friend of mine, and I am very loth 
that he should hang. Hence I will relieve you of your 
charge, so that he may not be exposed to any such danger.” 

“You—you are going to set him free?” said the chagrined 
Crisp, in quavering tones. “Is—is that all you are going 
to do?” 

“All that matters!” said the highwayman, with a 
laugh. “For the rest, I shall leave you in peace, though of 
course I shall first be compelled to ensure that you cannot 
follow hot-foot upon my trail. The precaution is vital 
to me, if a little inconvenient to you. You appreciate that?” 

But the High Constable, now that danger to his person 
was no longer imminent, had turned sulky and answered 
nothing. 

“What! Vexed, are you, Mr. Crisp?” the highwayman 
rallied him. “Nay, sir, look not so glum. ’Tis the fortune 
of war—my turn today, yours yesterday and perhaps to- 
morrow\ For yesterday you captured two friends of mine, 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


149 


and tomorrow you may capture me. Black Dick would be 
a prize worth taking, eh?” 

‘‘Aye, and I’ll get you yet* damn you,” growled Mr. 
Crisp, growing bolder. “You will rue this day’s work ere 
you are much older.” 

“Say you so, sir? Well, we shall see. Did you come 
across my good parson?” 

“I did so,” said Mr. Crisp grimly. 

“And had he regained consciousness?” asked the highway¬ 
man, with solicitude. “I fear I hit him over hard,” he 
added regretfully. 

“He came round before I left him, and he told me how 
you had robbed him of three hundred pounds,” replied Mr. 
Crisp, eyeing him suspiciously. “But that damned tinker 
bubbled me.” 

The highwayman heaved a sigh. “Ah, sir, you little 
know how sorely it hurt me to rob one so holy,” he said, 
shaking his head dolefully. “But I was so sadly in need 
of money that I had not cracked a bottle for nigh forty- 
eight hours. That must be my excuse, Mr. Crisp. But 
did I hear you say something of a tinker who had basely 
deceived you?” 

“Aye, you did. He was trying to bring the parson round 
when I arrived on the scene, and he told me that you had 
departed east and rode a lame horse, the lying knave! But 
I’ll have him in gaol for it, I promise you,” declared Mr. 
Crisp vindictively. 

“You would wrong him, Mr. Crisp,” said the highway¬ 
man gravely. “He gave you the facts as he saw them. 
Although I thought my encounter with the reverend 
gentleman went unobserved, I never neglect precautions, 
Mr. Crisp. Thus I had embedded a sharp flint in my 
horse’s hoof prior to the meeting, and afterwards I rode 
east until I reached the end of the wood. There I dis¬ 
mounted and removed the flint, and, skirting the wood, 


150 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


came back to the road. ’Tis very simple, but you would 
scarce expect a tinker to see through it.” 

During this strange colloquy Stephen’s bonds had been 
removed, but no word had been spoken to him. The 
keenest scrutiny of his rescuers had told him nothing ; they 
were all complete strangers to him, and he was at a loss 
to know the reason for their interference on his behalf. He 
could only conclude that, by some extraordinary means, 
Carless had hired them for the purpose, and he sat awaiting 
the outcome of his adventure with no little interest. 

“And now perhaps you will dismount, Mr. Crisp, and 
instruct your men to do likewise,” pursued the highwayman 
pleasantly. “Your society pleasures me, but time presses, 
and I must away.” 

“You are not going to steal our horses, are you?” cried 
the High Constable in dismay. 

“Certainly not, Mr. Crisp,” replied the other reproach¬ 
fully. “I am merely going to borrow them for awhile, 
that is all. I will release them in the course of an hour or 
two, and doubtless when you reach Darnchester you will 
find they have already arrived there. Horses have a happy 
knack of finding their stables, you know.” 

“But what the devil am I to do? Do you intend that I 
and my men shall walk?” 

“I regret to say that I do. And remember that you 
will go forward, and will not hark back upon your tracks.” 
The raillery had gone from the highwayman’s voice, and his 
mouth was set in hard, uncompromising lines. 

“But that means that we shall have to walk all the 
way,” protested Mr. Crisp despairingly. “There is not an 
inn between here and Darnchester at which we can hire four 
horses.” 

“That is unfortunate, I grant, Mr. Crisp. Yet I warn 
you that ’twould be unwise in you to go in the direction 
from which you have come, and with that warning I will 
bid you a very good day and a pleasant journey.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


151 


He turned to Stephen, and with a peremptory “Follow 
me, sir,” wheeled his horse off the road and set off across 
the moor in a north-easterly direction. This caused Stephen 
some surprise and not a little dismay. He had confidently 
expected that they would turn back towards Bolderburn, 
and he began to wonder if his escape from the clutches of the 
law promised as pleasant a prospect as he had anticipated. 

For two or three miles they rode in silence; then the 
leader, who had removed his mask, gave orders for the 
High Constable’s horses to be headed towards Darnchester 
and released. This done, they continued on their way; 
and after proceeding steadily for about a quarter of an 
hour, they reached the edge of the moor and entered a 
narrow lane. Five minutes later they came to an old dis¬ 
used barn, and here the leader halted and dismounted, 
bidding Stephen do likewise. He obeyed, and was then curtly 
instructed to go into the barn and wait. 

“We will disperse here, gentlemen/’ Stephen heard the 
leader say. “I am vastly grateful for your help, and I 
need hardly bid you make yourselves scarce without un¬ 
necessary delay. Sam, I shall require your horse for the 
use of the man we have rescued; take the mare he rode in 
exchange. You haven’t far to go, but have a care that you 
don’t ride her too close to home lest she be recognized. 
Turn her loose when you have done with her. Your 
own mount shall be returned to you within the next few 
hours.” 

The beat of the departing hoofs grew fainter and fainter, 
and at last ceased altogether. The dark-visaged highway¬ 
man, having watched his men out of sight, glanced sharply 
round him, and, taking the bridles of the two horses that 
remained, he led them into the barn and closed the crazy 
door. Then, turning to Stephen, he said quietly: 

“I have redeemed my promise, you see, Mr. Burgoyne.” 

Stephen stared at him in astonishment. The highway¬ 
man’s voice, which had hitherto been gruff and harsh, had 


152 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


changed entirely, and he knew it at once for that of his 
former companion in distress. 

“Carless!” he cried in delight, stepping forward and 
seizing the other’s two hands in his own. “’Fore gad! 
your own mother wouldn’t know you. No wonder Crisp 
mistook you for Black Dick.” 

“ ’Twas no mistake,” returned Carless, in the same quiet 
tones. “I am Black Dick.” 

“You are Black Dick!” echoed the bewildered Stephen. 
“I am afraid I don’t understand.” 

“Then I will explain, but I must be brief. As I told 
you in the summer-house, men call me the Squire of Worple- 
den. Well, so I am, and so were my fathers before me. 
Worpleden Hall has been occupied by a Carless for nigh 
two hundred years. But my family has never been famous 
either for thrift or foresight, and my father was no excep¬ 
tion to the rule. When I was eighteen my mother died; 
and he took me to Italy, ostensibly to finish my education. 
There we lived in idleness and apparent affluence until 
about two years ago, when, after my father’s death, I re¬ 
turned to England to find that, during our long absence, 
the rascally lawyer in whose hands my father had left 
the management of his estates had so contrived matters that 
all that remained to me was the Hall and its surrounding 
farms, burdened with a mortgage which rendered them 
worthless. There was I, at the age of thirty-one, penniless, 
and unable to earn a living because I had no trade. But 
I had been robbed, Mr. Burgoyne, robbed by one whose 
knowledge of the law rendered him immune from punish¬ 
ment; and that set me an example which I determined to 
follow. I made robbery my trade, as the lawyer had 
made it his, but I practised mine openly.” 

“You became a highwayman!” cried Stephen incredul¬ 
ously. 

“I did. The trade is a hazardous one, but it has paid 
me passing well. And, as you heard me tell Crisp, I never 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


153 


neglect precautions. I don the same black wig, the same 
make-up, and the same disguise whenever I find it necessary 
to replenish my purse, and those who know Ned Carless 
for Black Dick are few and trustworthy. I had been 
taken long ago else. But I see my story disconcerts you, 
sir. Well, I cannot blame you; the company of a cut- 
purse can scarce be a delight to one in your station,” he 
concluded bitterly, pulling off his black wig and exposing 
his fair curly hair to view. 

Stephen seized him by the shoulders, and, holding him 
thus, looked him full in the eyes. 

“Never speak such words to me again, Ned,” he chided 
gently, using the other’s Christian name for the first time. 
“Your trade is your own concern, but, be you the devil 
himself, you have made me your grateful friend for life. 
No house that I ever occupy and no board at which I chance 
to sit but shall cry Ned Carless a thousand welcomes should 
he honor me by sharing them.” 

“Thank you, Burgoyne,” said Carless simply. He turned 
away and picked up an old bucket which lay in a corner, 
and, after peering cautiously through a hole in the door, 
went outside, to return presently with a pail brimming with 
clear water. 

“There you are, Burgoyne. Make yourself as spick and 
span as possible,” he said cheerily, setting down the pail 
at Stephen’s feet. “And the quicker you are the better; 
I have no wish to be seen here—although that is scarce 
likely, for w~e are half a mile from the nearest house.” 

Quickly Stephen washed the dirt from his face and hands, 
whilst Carless transformed himself into his fair-complex- 
ioned, natural self. 

Suddenly Stephen laughed. “I thought you said you 
never neglected precautions, Ned,” he said quizzically. 

Carless, who was strenuously rubbing his face with a 
towel which he had taken from one of his saddlebags, 
looked up sharply, a shadow of alarm in his eyes. 


154 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Nor do I,” he said shortly. 

“What of last night, then? Why did you neglect to 
transform yourself into Black Dick before joining Alverford 
and me in our enterprise?” 

“For two reasons. The first was that when Sir Randolph 
Gorst pressed me into his service I was without my disguise, 
and the second was that I did not take the venture 
seriously.” 

“I see. Then Sir Randolph does not know that it was 
Black Dick with whom he dealt?” 

“He does not. And his ignorance will cost him dear 
some day,” replied Carless grimly. “And you, Burgoyne? 
Did you wear a greatcoat last night?” 

“No. The night was close, and I thought we should 
be home before the storm broke. Why do you ask?” 

“I observed that you are not wearing one now, and I 
feared lest the garment, if it were left behind, might be an 
excellent clue to your identity. However, as things are, 
I think we have left nothing behind us that might betray us.” 

As he spoke he went again to his saddlebags, and, thrust¬ 
ing a hand into one of them, he pulled out first a small 
brush, and then a handsome brown cloth coat. 

“This brush will help you to get the mud from your 
breeches,” he said, holding it out to Stephen. “Your 
boots do not matter. Then you might remove that blue 
coat of yours and try on this one I have here. I think 
’twill fit you, for we are about a size. ’Tis a little creased, 
but ’tis well-nigh as fashionably cut as your own,” he 
finished, with a twinkle in his eye. 

“I* faith! you are a wonderful fellow, Ned,” exclaimed 
Stephen admiringly. “See, the garment fits me like a 
glove. Have you got a similar change for yourself?” 

“ ’Tis not necessary,” replied Carless, smiling as he 
removed his coat and, to Stephen’s intense astonishment, 
proceeded to turn it inside out. “My business clothes are 
specially made, and whereas this coat was but a moment ago 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


155 


plum-color, you will observe that it is now olive green. 
I know of but one tailor in all England who has the knack 
of it, for ’tis a difficult matter, particularly in the collar and 
the revers. I owe that tailor much, Burgoyne, for his skill 
has saved me from the gallows more than once.” 

He folded up Stephen’s discarded coat and placed it in 
the bag, and then, to his companion’s further wonderment, 
took the pail of water, and with a second brush began to 
scrub vigorously at his horse’s near hind fetlock. 

“You are surely not going to w*ash down your mare 
now, Ned,” he said incredulously. 

“Not I,” returned Carless, laughing as he continued 
his task. “But you will observe that her fetlocks are, 
like my coat, changing their hue, and that this one, from 
being all of a piece with the rest of her, is rapidly becoming 
white.” 

“Why, so it is!” agreed the wide-eyed Stephen. 

• “You see, Burgoyne, a horse is just as easily recognized 
as a man,” pursued Carless, “and there are many whose 
bones moulder in the grave because they overlooked that 
fact. This mare was an unblemished bay when she came 
here; when she leaves she will have two white feet; and to¬ 
morrow her owner will ride a bay mare wdth four white 
feet and a blaze on her forehead.” 

“As you said, Ned, you neglect no precaution,” said 
Stephen, lost in admiration of his companion’s thorough¬ 
ness. “And what of the horse that I am to ride? Is he 
disguised, too?” 

“No. ’Tis unlikely that he was noticed. He was 
ridden by one of those who came up behind you. Now 
I think we are ready.” He rose to his feet, and picked up 
the pail. “I will see if the coast is clear. Our hats and 
boots are our only weak spots, but we must of necessity take 
some risk.” 

He carried the pail outside, and brought it back empty 
in a moment or two. 


156 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

“Now, Burgoyne, to horse. Ride as you do ordinarily, 
and if we encounter anyone on the road, go forward boldly, 
even though Crisp himself approach. And in the unlikely 
event of our being stopped and questioned, do not hesitate 
to give your correct name, and to say you ride for pleasure 
with your friend Ned Carless.” 


CHAPTER XI 


TELLS HOW A CORINTHIAN DINED WITH A TINKER, A QUACK 
AND A THIEF 

R IDING rapidly down the lane by which they had come, 
Stephen and his companion left the old barn behind 
them; but instead of turning oft at the point at which they 
had previously left the moor and setting a straight course for 
Bolderburn as Stephen had expected, Carless, who was 
leading, continued along the lane until, after a winding 
progress of nearly two miles, it merged into the main 
highway. 

Here Carless, holding up his hand, halted, and scanned 
the landscape to the southward with keen blue eyes. 
Apparently his scrutiny satisfied him, for after a moment 
or two he said, “Straight ahead, Burgoyne,” and, cross¬ 
ing the road, put spurs to his horse and galloped forward 
over the open moor. Stephen followed at the best pace 
he could make, but he soon found that Ned’s horse was 
considerably faster than his own, and the distance between 
them rapidly increased. For several miles they proceeded 
thus, and Stephen was at a loss to understand his com¬ 
panion’s peculiar behavior. 

But just as he was beginning to think that he would 
lose sight of Carless altogether, he saw the latter rein in his 
mount in the lee of a small cluster of trees. 

“F faith! Ned, you ride hard,” he exclaimed, as he 
came abreast of the trees. “ ’Tis a chancey business gallop¬ 
ing over rabbit warrens.” 


157 


158 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Aye, but it was worth while to take the risk.” 

“But why did you leave me so far behind?” persisted 
Stephen. 

“Because two horsemen riding wide apart are less notice¬ 
able than two riding together.” 

“True; I had not thought of it. Whither are we 
going, Ned?” 

“To Bolderburn.” 

“Bolderburn?” echoed Stephen. “Surely this is not the 
way to Bolderburn?” 

“It isn’t. But methought it wiser to approach the village 
from a direction that will arouse no suspicion in the minds 
of Crisp or his men should they chance to see us. Hence 
the gallop, which I trust was not observed by anyone. Here 
w^e turn sharp to the left, and head straight for the road 
at a point approximating to that at which we contrived your 
rescue.” 

They moved forward again, this time towards the 
south, Carless setting the pace at an easy trot. He rode 
with seeming nonchalance, but his eyes were never still, 
and there was scarce a movement of either bird or beast 
within range of his vision that he failed to note. 

“Think you not that this detour was unnecessary?” 
queried Stephen, after they had covered a mile or so. “I 
cannot see that there was much risk in out approaching 
Bolderburn direct. You bade Crisp and his men go for¬ 
ward and not back, and they will scarce have dared to 
disobey you.” 

“Neither you nor I know what Crisp has done since we 
left him,” retorted Carless, a trifle sharply. “He is not 
quite the fool he appears to be, and he would give his ears 
to capture Black Dick. Thus if he chanced to see us 
return the way we went, although we were two instead 
of five, he would most certainly eye us more narrowly than 
accords with my ideas. And you forget that I had neither 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 159 

paint nor mud on my face last night when I was taken 
prisoner.” 

“Not at all. Your quibble was reasonable on the face 
of things.” 

But Carless’s remarks had dealt a shrewd blow at 
Stephen’s confidence, which began to give place to an 
uneasiness which grew greater as they advanced. He 
gave only half his attention to the highwayman’s tale of 
how he had, after escaping, pressed Alverford into his 
service, and, with no little difficulty, gathered together 
a few companions to help him to carry out his plans. 

“It was touch and go,” Carless was saying. “Had 
Crisp set out with you five minutes sooner, I fear the game 
had been lost. But what ails you, man? You are vastly 
morose of a sudden, methinks.” 

“I am worried, Ned,” confessed Stephen. “It appears 
to me that you are risking too much for my sake. If, as 
you say, you wore no disguise last night, you must have 
been recognized then and there either by Crisp himself 
or by some other of those who were present when we were 
captured. It seems to me that-” 

“Not so fast, sir, not so fast,” cried the other, with a 
gay laugh. “You imagine that because I chance to be 
Squire of Worpleden everybody in Lancashire must know 
me. That is a delusion which most townsmen cherish! 
But remember that Darnchester, Crisp’s headquarters, 
is over twenty miles from my home, and that since I returned 
from abroad I have perforce been something of a recluse. 
Consequently, I am not so familiar a figure to our enemies 
as you might suppose.” 

“But surely you are known to Colonel Oldfield?” 

“By sight, yes. But fortunately he took but little notice 
of me; and, even though I lacked disguise, I had my wits 
with me. Look at me closely, Burgoyne,” he concluded 
suddenly. 

He turned his head, and Stephen saw a face so curiously 



160 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


distorted that he could scarce believe that it was .Carless 
who still rode with him. One eye was closed, and the 
other squinted diabolically. The mouth was twisted in a 
peculiar grimace which exposed the teeth at one side only, 
whilst the puckered wrinkles to which this gave rise added 
years to his companion’s apparent age. Yet withal, the 
visage did not strike the observer as unnatural; its ugliness 
appeared to be that of malformation and not of distortion. 

“Well, what think you of it?” asked Carless, without 
altering his grimace. 

“I wouldn’t have believed it possible,” replied Stephen 
in wonderment. “Certainly I should never have recognized 
you.” 

“Nor w T ill others, I hope.” Carless resumed his natural 
expression. “ ’Tis a trick I learned years ago, and I have 
the knack of holding it for just as long as it pleases me. 
I assumed it the moment I was captured, and I think none 
saw me without it, or suspected it w r as assumed. Of 
course, Sir Randolph knows me, for I was my own natural 
self when he hired me to take his place, but I have a shrewd 
notion that he will think twice ere he betrays me.” 

“Yet I like it not,” said Stephen uneasily. “Although 
the trick is perfect when one observes you full face, it may 
not be so effective in profile.” 

“We shall soon find out, anyway,” said Carless grimly. 
“See you three horsemen away to our right? They are 
riding hard, eh? ’Tis our good friend Kellett and his 
brother man-hunters returning from their abortive chase 
of the elusive Dick. You’ll note their black looks and the 
merciless way they flog their sweating mounts. They 
are in no good temper, I fear, Burgoyne. They’ll test your 
theory, I’ll warrant!” 

Stephen, after a quick glance at the approaching rides, 
instinctively put spurs to his mount. 

“Stop that!” called Carless peremptorily, as loudly as he 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 161 

dared. “Are you mad, Burgoyne? Continue to ride as 
you were doing before, and pay them no attention.” 

“But can’t you see that they intend to intercept us?” 
objected Stephen. “They have recognized us, of a 
certainty.” 

“There is nothing certain about it,” retorted Carless 
sharply. “ 5 Tis far more likely that they seek informa¬ 
tion from us. And if we try to evade them we shall 
certainly be courting disaster, for we may arouse in them 
suspicions which are not yet awake.” 

The wisdom of these remarks was patent, and Stephen 
promptly contrived an expression of nonchalant ease 
which the highwayman himself could not have bettered. 

“Hi! You there! Halt!” Kellett’s shout was both 
imperative and threatening. “I want a word with you 
two, d’you hear?” 

Immediately the men addressed reined in their horses and 
awaited the oncoming riders. 

“You are peremptory, my friend,” remarked Carless icily 
to Kellett, as the officer and his followers came to a stand¬ 
still. “The business that prompts you to address your 
betters in such a tone must be urgent indeed!” 

“Urgent enough. ’Tis the King’s business,” growled 
Kellett surlily, but with his truculence evaporating before 
the other’s supercilious demeanor. 

“Indeed! Then I am not enamored of the King’s 
choice of messengers.” Carless’s insolence convinced 
Kellett that he had to do with gentlemen of quality, and 
his aggressive manner changed to one of grudging respect. 

“No offence, sir,” he said. “I’m only doing my duty.” 

“Quite so,” said Carless irritably; “but what do you 
want of me?” 

“Well, sir, we’re lookin’ for a criminal, and I wondered 
if you or your friend had seed aught of him.” 

“What manner of man is he?” 

“A big black-lookin’ fellow ridin’ a lame bay mare. From 


162 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


what we knows of him, I thought he might ha’ been goin’ 
in th’ direction you’ve come from.” 

Carless turned to his companion. “Do you recollect 
passing such a person, Burgoyne?” he asked indifferently. 

“Can’t say that I do,” replied Stephen, stifling a yawn. 
“We’ve passed several horsemen, but I didn’t notice any 
of ’em particularly.” 

“Nor I.” Carless shifted in his saddle as though about 
to depart; then he frowned suddenly and appeared to be 
trying to recall something to his mind. “One moment 
though. Now I come to think of it, I fancy I saw a man 
who would answer to the description you give. Don’t 
you remember a fellow in a plum-colored coat who 
passed us near the edge of the moor, Burgoyne? You 
remarked about the mare he was riding—an unblemished 
bay.” 

“Why, yes, so I do,” said Stephen idly. “Fine mare 
she was, too.” 

“Was she lame, sir?” asked Kellett eagerly. 

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Carless thoughtfully. “In 
fact, I’m sure she wasn’t, for she was travelling like the 
wind.” 

Disappointment shadowed Kellett’s face. “Then it 
couldn’t ha’ been ’im,” he said gloomily. 

“You are sure his mount was lame, then?” queried Car¬ 
less nonchalantly. 

“Well, we was told so for certain, sir.” 

“Hum! It strikes me as unlikely that a criminal would 
ride an unsound horse when his life might hang on the 
matter. Think you not that your fugitive may have been 
clever enough to deceive your informant? ’Tis a simple 
matter to make a horse limp. A bit of stick in the hoof 
would do it.” 

The light of comprehension, not unmixed with chagrin, 
dawned in Kellett’s eyes, and he slapped his thigh. “By 
gum! but I believe you’ve hit it, sir,” he cried. “Damn 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


163 


him! he must have hidden hisself some’ow until we was 
out o’ sight and then gone forward. ’Ow long is it sin’ 
you saw him?’* 

“Just as long as it has taken us to ride from the edge 
of the moor to here,” replied Carless. “He was headed for 
the main road north.” 

“Thank you kindly, sir.” Kellett touched his hat and 
gathered up his reins. “Sorry to ha’ troubled you, sir. 
Good day to you.” 

“Good day. I trust you will overtake your quarry, 
but you will have to ride hard to do it.” 

“Aye, hard indeed!” remarked Stephen drily, as soon 
as Kellett was out of earshot. “Methinks he will have 
to encircle the globe to do it if he keep on in his present 
direction.” 

Carless smiled, but his smile was one of relief rather 
than mirth. “I’m glad to see his back,” he said. “I 
had qualms, Burgoyne, for that was the man who tied me 
up last night. But ’twas obvious that he suspected nothing.” 

“Aye. His haste would be less otherwise.” 

For some moments they rode in silence, each busy with 
his thoughts. But as they approached the road a voice 
hailed them, and Stephen, glancing in the direction from 
which it came, observed a thin column of smoke ascend¬ 
ing into the still air from a fire which had been lighted in 
a little hollow in the lee of some gorse bushes. A few 
yards away from the fire stood a tinker’s cart, and in the 
unharnessed donkey which browsed contentedly beside it 
Stephen recognized the sagacious Adam. The tinker him¬ 
self stood close by, and was waving a beckoning hand. 

“ ’Fore gad! this is most unfortunate.” Stephen frowned 
with vexation. “ ’Tis the tinker who gave Crisp the infor¬ 
mation regarding Black Dick.” 

“What matter?” asked Carless, heading his horse towards 
the fire. 


164 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Matter enough and to spare,” retorted Stephen. “He 
is an astute fellow and will know me at a glance.” 

Carless laughed lightly. “You have naught to fear from 
William the tinker. He is more like to minister to your 
hunger than to deliver you to justice, and if your appetite 
be as keen as mine you are sharp set indeed.” 

“F faith! I’m glad to hear it,” said Stephen, with a 
sigh of relief. “Now you mention it, I have eaten nothing 
since breakfast.” 

“And I since last night,” said Carless drily. “But 
William will remedy that, I’ll warrant.” 

“Is he an acquaintance of yours?” 

“He is more than that. Had it not been for him, I 
doubt if you would now be riding at my side. Well, 
William, what news?” he cried as, dismounting, he took 
the bit from his mare’s mouth and left her to her own 
devices. 

“No news as you ain’t aware on, I reckon,” said the 
tinker, his eyes a-twinkle. “I see as ye rescued the gent 
all right.” 

“That he did!” interjected Stephen, following his friend’s 
example and turning his horse loose. “And both you and 
he have made me eternally your debtor.” 

“Nay, nay, sir,” protested William. “As for Ned I 
can’t say, but as for me, ye don’t owe me nothink. Ye’ll 
recolleck that little argyment as I ’ad wiv that ’ere young 
sprig o’ the nobility, ’im as give me a testimonial, eh?” 

“Indeed I do,” replied Stephen, smiling. 

“Well then, ye’ll also recolleck as ye judged betwixt us 
and gave me the verdick. One good turn deserves another, 
I say, and our accounts is now square up to date.” 

“What have you got in the pot, William?” interposed 
Carless, gazing longingly at the cauldron which was sus¬ 
pended from a tripod over the fire. 

“A br’iled chicken—done along o’ two or three potaters, 
a carrot, and a bit o’ onion,” declared the tinker, smack- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


165 


ing his lips. “So sit ye down—that is, if this ’ere gent 
ain’t too proud to eat wiv a tinker,” he concluded diffidently, 
cocking an enquiring eye at Stephen. 

The latter flushed uncomfortably. “On the contrary, 
I am deeply grateful for your hospitality, which is proffered 
at a most opportune moment. My hunger is keen, William, 
and ’twill need some appeasing, I promise you.” 

The gratified tinker, having seated his guests under the 
gorse bushes, handed to each of them a spoon, and a tin 
plate into which he ladled a considerable quantity of 
steaming and fragrant stew. Then he whistled softly, and, 
to Stephen’s astonishment, there emerged from behind the 
bushes a man in whom he instantly recognized the clergy¬ 
man who, earlier in the day, had been the victim o’ Black 
Dick. But his clerical attire had given place to rougher 
garb, and his face—the pallor of which had not abated 
and which Stephen now concluded was natural—was alight 
with merriment. 

“Another surprise for you, eh, Burgoyne?” smiled 
Carless. “Permit me to present to you Jeremiah Dodd, 
lately trooper in His Majesty’s service, more lately still 
—though for a shorter period—a luminary of the Church.” 

Stephen laughed as he held out his hand to the new¬ 
comer. “You bubbled me as well as Crisp,” he said. “I 
had no suspicion until this moment that the Reverend Mr. 
Willoughby was other than he represented himself to be. 
You are a clever actor, Mr. Dodd.” 

“I am Jerry to my friends, sir, if I may count you as one.” 

“Indeed you may. I-” 

Jerry held up his hand. “Your dinner gets cold, and 
there is no need for honeyed words between friends,” he 
said quietly. “The eyes speak more truthfully than the 
tongue, and what I see in yours makes protestations un¬ 
necessary.” 

As he spoke he picked up a plate which the tinker had 



166 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


placed for him, and, helping himself from the bubbling 
pot, sat down by Stephen’s side. 

In what strange places and peculiar circumstances do 
we meet those chosen by Fate to mould our destinies! The 
people whom we come across in the ordinary social round 
are seldom those whose lot it is to make or mar our lives; 
much oftener is it the men and women encountered by what 
is called “Chance” who carry in their hands the keys that 
open for us the great gates of the way that leads to golden 
happiness or black despair. If for no other reason than 
this, it behoves us ever to treat all with whom we come in 
contact with courtesy and consideration. Courtesy costs 
nothing, apart from a little curbing of our own ill-humors, 
but it is always the seed of a bountiful harvest. 

Had anyone, but a short week ago, told Stephen Bur- 
goyne—Buck Burgoyne, Corinthian, leader of fashion, fine 
gentleman—that he would be glad to sit under a bush with 
a highwayman, a tinker, and an ex-trooper, and to eat stew 
with them from a tin plate with no other implements than 
his fingers and a spoon, he would have dubbed his informant 
imbecile. Yet here was he, enjoying his repast as he had 
not enjoyed a meal since his boyhood’s days, and aglow with 
that feeling of pleasure which only the most perfectly con¬ 
genial companionship can give. The Polite World would 
scarce have credited its own eyes could it have seen him 
thus, for what could the elegant Mr. Burgoyne have in 
common with such men as these? Yet to them he owed his 
liberty, his life, and his good name, and surely no man 
can be more heavily in debt than this. 

“You are thoughtful, Burgoyne,” said Carless presently. 

“Aye, I have much to think about,” agreed Stephen. 
“You did not tell me that even the parson was your ally, 
and it amazes me that you were able to call to your aid so 
large a company and to lay your plans with such thorough¬ 
ness.” 

“ ’Twas more by good luck than aught else,” explained 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


167 


Carless. “After leaving Lord Alverford I sought a good 
friend—one of those whom you have already seen—and 
when I explained my errand he saddled his horse without 
quibble and set out with me. Our plans were as indeter¬ 
minate as moonshine, and we stopped at the inn in the hope 
that a tankard of ale would lubricate the cogs of our brains 
as well as our throats. There, as luck would have it, we 
found two men who are beholden to me, and after some 
discussion they, though somewhat reluctantly, agreed to 
join us. We at length decided that our only course was 
to attempt your rescue by force, but I was not enamored 
of the prospect, for I had none too much faith in the whole¬ 
heartedness of my two latest recruits. So we set out again, 
and on the road met William here and his friend Jerry. 
The sight of them gave me the idea of attempting to split 
up Crisp’s party, and within five minutes the little scene you 
saw enacted had been planned. Jerry has a fertile brain 
within that hard head of his.” 

“Where did he get his parson’s clothes?” asked Stephen 
curiously. 

“From a little store that I keep not many miles from 
here,” replied Carless, with a smile. “I had not far to 
go, else I dared not have risked it, for time pressed.” 

“And wdiat will happen when Crisp finds that he has 
been duped—for he will surely discover that the parson 
is non-existent ?” asked Stephen seriously. “Methinks it 
may go hard with William and Jerry if that be so, and 
William, at least, can easily be found.” 

“You don’t quite grasp the good Crisp’s methods, Bur- 
goyne,” said Carless easily. “It seems to me that your 
fears are groundless, for I know Crisp of old. Having 
failed to capture Black Dick, why should he seek the par¬ 
son? To do so would be to force him to confess his own 
incompetence, and to lay himself open to censure and perhaps 
dismissal. That is how Crisp will argue the matter, and 
you may rest assured that our friends here are in no danger.” 


168 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“That is good hearing,” said Stephen fervently. “I 
should be vastly sorry to learn that they had done them¬ 
selves an ill turn in doing me a good one.” 

Carless’s jovial expression changed suddenly and became 
hard and stern. “You take the matter too much to your¬ 
self,” he said, somewhat coldly. “The motive for my 
actions was not entirely benevolent, and had I not had a 
debt to pay on my own account I doubt if I should have 
concerned myself unduly on yours. My object is to get 
even with Sir Randolph Gorst, and in rescuing you I helped 
towards that end. I am a highwayman, Burgoyne, not a 
knight-errant, and ’twill please me better if you will keep 
that fact fixed firmly in your mind.” 

Chilled by his unexpected rebuff, and not a little inclined 
to take umbrage at it, Stephen continued his meal in silence; 
but as he munched his food his anger gradually cooled, and 
he remembered only the great service which had been 
rendered him. 

This highwayman was a strange fellow, without a doubt. 
Watching him as he ate, Stephen noted that his eyes never 
rested. Their keen glance swept the open heath in constant 
search, and ever and anon he turned his head and peered 
through the bushes which hid them from the view of the 
users of the road. His joviality had given place to a gloom 
which became him ill, and which made him look careworn 
and old. Stephen could scarce believe that this was the 
careless, happy-go-lucky fellow who had been such a de¬ 
lightful companion, and he marvelled that a chance word 
of his own could have wrought such a change. 

At length Carless threw aside his plate and rose abruptly 
to his feet. With a curt order to William to follow him, 
he strode away towards a little mound which stood about 
fifty yards from the fire—evidently with the intention of 
procuring a more comprehensive view of the surrounding 
country before getting to horse again. 

Jerry smiled whimsically as he watched the retreating 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 169 

figures. “A rum pair, aren’t they?” he said. ‘‘William’s 
a rum ’un, but Ned’s a rummer.” 

“So ’twould se?m,” agreed Stephen. “What was it I 
said that plunged him in gloom so suddenly?” 

“God knows!” returned Jerry. “Ned’s a law unto him¬ 
self—blithe as a cricket one minute, and miserable as a 
half-drowned cat the next. I don’t think it was aught you 
said that upset him. There’s no accounting for his moods, 
and the black dog jumps on to his shoulders at the most 
unlikely moments.” 

“You know him well, then?” 

“Fairly so,” said Jerry evasively. “Say well enough 
to gues9 that his complaint is the same as yours.” 

“The same as mine!” echoed Stephen, in amazement. 
“And pray what may that be?” 

“You’re both in love, Mr. Burgoyne,” said Jerry, with 
placid confidence. 

Stephen flushed with annoyance. “You presume too far, 
sir,” he said coldly. “That I am deeply in your debt I 
grant, but my indebtedness does not permit you to poke 
your nose into my private affairs. You will be well advised 
to keep a still tongue about matters which don’t concern 
you.” 

“I speak what I please to whom I please,” retorted the 
ex-trooper calmly. “I say again that you are in love.” 

“Damn your insolence!” cried Stephen angrily, seizing 
the riding-whip that lay on the grass at his side and leaping 
up impulsively. “Say another word and I’ll thrash you 
soundly!” 

“That were beyond your powers, sir,” declared the other 
coolly, also rising to his feet as he spoke. 

Such a remark was all that was needed to fan the smoul¬ 
dering embers of Stephen’s wrath into flame, and he struck 
at the impudent fellow with all his force. But his blow 
never reached its object. His descending wrist was caught 
with amazing dexterity in a vice-like grip, which gradually 


170 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


tightened until the whip dropped harmlessly from his nerve¬ 
less fingers. It seemed to him that the bones would in¬ 
evitably be crushed to pulp; a mist swam before his eyes, 
but just as he felt that he must scream with the agony of it, 
the awful grip relaxed, and he found himself staring stupidly 
at his benumbed right hand. A quizzical voice spoke gently 
and chidingly in his ear. 

“Come, sir, come; never lose your temper over trifles. 
An even temper will carry you almost anywhere, but a 
quick temper, ill-controlled, will strew your path with all 
manner of obstacles, and lead you into every kind of un¬ 
pleasantness.” 

“But you were insolent,” persisted Stephen obstinately, 
nursing his throbbing wrist. 

“Not I. I did but speak the truth, and truth, though 
’tis not always pleasant hearing, ought never to earn a 
thrashing for its teller. Tomorrow you will laugh at your¬ 
self for taking offence at naught, and laughter is the panacea 
for all ills. So why not laugh now, as I do?” 

And, suiting the action to the word, Jerry put back his 
head and gave vent to a peal of laughter for which there 
was no apparent cause, but which was so hearty, so merry, 
so infectious that, despite himself, Stephen found it impos¬ 
sible to keep the smile from his lips. 

“Ah! that’s better, Mr. Burgoyne,” said Jerry approv¬ 
ingly, resuming his seat and taking from his pocket a short 
and blackened clay pipe. “You bear no malide, I trust.” 

“None,” declared Stephen, looking slightly ashamed of 
himself. “I apologize for losing my temper; it was un¬ 
warrantable.” 

“Methinks Ned was really to blame,” opined Jerry 
shrewdly. “And love is very trying to a man’s temper. 
We have seen that twice in the last ten minutes.” 

“But I am not in love,” declared Stephen, with somewhat 
unnecessary emphasis. 

His companion smiled incredulously. “ ’Tis useless to 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


171 


try to deceive me, sir,” he said. “I know the symptoms too 
well, for it is part of my trade to recognize these things at 
a glance.” 

“And what is your trade?” 

“Why, there are some who call me physician, some who 
dub me quack, and many who cry me knave. In short, 
since leaving the Army I am become a professor of the 
great science of medicine, a healer of human ills—not perhaps 
unduly burdened with qualifications or book-learning, but 
possessing a knowledge of mankind that stands me in ex¬ 
cellent stead. At certain times of the year I go from town 
to town, attending at fairs, markets, or other gatherings at 
which I may turn an honest penny. I sell pills that will 
cure all known internal complaints, from colds to colic; a 
liniment which, applied to the affected parts, will ease every 
pain, from gout to toothache; and a magic love-potion which 
is never known to fail, no matter whether it be taken by 
man or maid.” 

“You must be a very clever man.” 

“No, sir, not clever; merely observant.” 

“How can that be ? Surely ’twas not merely observation 
that enabled you to concoct that infallible pill?” 

“Certainly it was, sir. For, look you, my pill contains 
naught but soap and breadcrumbs coated on the outside with 
bitter aloes.” 

“And do you mean to say that people are such fools as 
to think they derive benefit from it?” 

“Aye, that I do. They buy ’em by the gross, and still 
come back for more. ’Tis just this way, sir. If I can 
persuade the people that my remedy will cure them, the 
battle is more than half won; and after taking the pills 
their faith does the rest, and they are well again. The 
pill itself is of little value, but I heal their minds by my 
speech, and the body is the slave of the mind. My power 
lies in my tongue and not in my pill, for the former endows 
the latter with a virtue which of itself it lacks. My words 


172 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


are soothing to the nerves, and my pill is bitter to the 
taste; human nature demands that medicine shall affront 
the palate, and if it be sweet the patient loses faith in its 
efficacy. Hence I make it bitter.” 

“And what of the liniment?” asked Stephen laughing. 

“ Tis exactly the same with that. It is water in which 
has been boiled an evil-smelling herb, for just as folk like 
their physic to be nasty, they like their liniment to offend 
their nose9. Here, however, my tongue has an ally. I 
tell my customers that the stuff must be well rubbed in, 
and rubbing always helps to allay muscular pains or stiffness. 
You see, sir, folks won’t rub unless they have something 
-which tempts ’em to rub, and my liniment does that.” 

“Methinks you have studied human nature to some pur¬ 
pose! But how does your theory work in relation to the 
love-potion? I cannot conceive that anything you may say 
as to its merits can influence any but the actual purchaser, 
and in nine cases out of ten the potion must be intended to 
be given to someone who is not of your audience.” 

“Ah, there we deal with another side of the question. 
My potion is of small measure, prettily colored and pleasant 
to the taste, as a love-potion should be. If a man buys it 
and asks a maid to drink it for his sake, she knows at once 
that he is enamored of her, and, as love does more often 
than not breed love, my magic liquid has every chance of 
success And if a maid cajoles a man in like manner, his 
vanity is flattered by the attention, and the very arts she 
uses in the accomplishment of her delicate task may open 
his stupid masculine eyes to her desires and her charms—and 
behold! the potion has worked and love has another victim!” 

“In sooth, you are the very prince of charlatans, Jerry! 
But I’ll wager ’twas not the profession of medicine that 
gave you such abnormal strength,” said Stephen, with a 
rueful glance at his wrist. 

“No, the Army did that for me,” smiled Jerry. “But 
I see that Ned and William have finished their confab and 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


173 


are returning. Can I not sell you a bottle of my love- 
potion ere they arrive? I have some in my pack yonder, 
and believe me, sir, there is no more effective way of declar¬ 
ing your passion than through its medium.” 

“ ’Tis useless to me, I fear,” said Stephen, coloring slight¬ 
ly. “Fortunately I chance to be heart-whole.” 

The erstwhile trooper shook his head and smiled know¬ 
ingly. “Perhaps you think so now, but you are wrong, 
Mr. Burgoyne,” he said sagely. “I encounter love too 
often to be deceived. So if at any time you need my magic 
mixture, remember that Jerry Dodd is to be found at most 
places hereabouts where there may be a fair in progress, 
and, in any case, we are bound to meet again ere long.” 


CHAPTER XII 


WHEREIN CARLESS TAKES PRECAUTIONS AND STEPHEN 
MAKES A VOW 



HE Nag’s Head, bathed in the afternoon sunshine, pre- 


A sented its wonted peaceful aspect as Carless and Stephen 
trotted slowly towards it. Even the taciturn Mr. Jack 
Hindle, he of the canary-colored waistcoat and the silky 
whiskers, occupied his usual position against the gatepost at 
the entrance to the inn yard, with the inevitable straw 
turning between his lips. A gleam of interest appeared 
in his eyes as they fell upon the approaching horsemen, and 
a9 the latter drew rein in front of him he actually spat out 
his straw and forgot to replace it by another one. 

“You were wrong about the weather, you see, Jack,” 
remarked Carless pleasantly, as he dismounted. 

Jack opened his eyes wide, and stared at him in an 
aggrieved fashion. “Never wrong about th’ weather,” 
he objected, with more heat than Stephen had hitherto seen 
him show. 

“Yet you were mistaken this time,” insisted Carless 
suavely. “You will remember that when Mr. Burgoyne and 
I set out on our ride this morning you ventured the opinion 
that the sunshine would be gone before noon.” 

Jack gulped, looked at the mystified Stephen, gulped 
again, and then, staring harder than ever at Carless, said: 
“Did I?” 

“You did,” said Carless emphatically, returning Jack’s 
stare with hard, cold eyes. “Is your father in the house?” 



174 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


175 


“Then I’ll go in. Give the mare a drink but naught 
else. By the way, what time was it when we started out 
for Mansford this morning? About nine o’clock, wasn’t it?” 

The taciturn one stroked his whiskers, rubbed his chin, 
and scratched his head; then he suddenly grinned broadly, 
and winked his left eye. 

“Nine to th’ minute!” he said positively. 

“I thought so,” said Carless, looking at him significantly. 
“Don’t forget that, Jack, if anybody should ask you.” 

Jack winked again without replying, and, taking the 
two bridles, led tbe horses away. 

“That makes one unshakable witness,” said Carless, 
in a satisfied undertone, as Stephen and he entered the 
inn. “Jack will not forget one word that I have said, 
and will be ready to take oath that you and I left here 
for Mansford at nine o’clock this morning.” 

“Your object i9 to establish an alibi for me, I take it,” 
observed Stephen. 

“For both of us,” corrected Carless—somewhat curtly, 
Stephen thought. “I propose now to enlist the services 
of Jack’s parents also to that end, if it be possible.” 

He passed by the doors of the public rooms without a 
glance, and, Stephen following, unceremoniously ’ entered 
the large and comfortable kitchen with the air of one 
privileged beyond the ordinary customer of the inn. 

This being the time of day when trade was slackest, the 
landlord sat dozing before the open fireplace, with his 
slippered feet on the fender. A huge red and yellow 
bandana handkerchief covered his head and face; but as 
his guests entered, the noise of the opening door disturbed 
him, and he removed the handkerchief and yawned 
prodigiously. But as he did so his gaze fell upon the 
two men, and the somnolence in his eyes gave place to 
astonishment. 

“Why, hang me if it isn’t Mr. Burgoyne!” he cried. 


176 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“I thought you must ha’ gone for good, sir, though I 
couldn’t understand why you’d said nowt about it.” 

Before Stephen could reply, Carless stepped /forward 
and said quickly: “Time enough for Mr. Burgoyne to 

explain that later, Tom. I’ve a word or two to say, and 
you’ll be doing me a favor if you’ll listen carefully. Mr. 
Burgoyne slept here last night,” he concluded abruptly, 
making the assertion in the tone of one who knows that 
his words cannot be denied. 

“That he didn’t!” Hindle shook his head emphatically. 
“Mr. Burgoyne went out early in th’ evening, and-” 

“I tell you he slept here last night, and don’t you forget 
it,” interrupted Carless, with equal and far grimmer 
emphasis. 

The landlord rose from his chair, and, taking a long 
clay pipe from the mantlepiece, stood with it in his hand 
surveying his guests steadily and gravely. 

“I didn’t know as you were friendly wi’ Mr. Burgoyne, 
Ned,” he said at last, with apparent irrevelance. “Are 
you birds of a feather, like?” 

Carless’s face flushed a dull, dark red. “That’s none 
of your business,” he said surlily, flinging himself into a 
chair. 

The landlord smiled and lit his pipe. “Isn’t it?” he 
said quietly, puffing a huge cloud of smoke into the air. 
‘“Just as you like, lad. But if it’s none o’ my business, 
then happen Mr. Burgoyne’ll make it convenient to find 
some other inn.” 

“ ’Fore gad! landlord, surely you are taking offence at 
naught,” protested Stephen, angered and amazed by 
Hindle’s attitude. “I cannot-” 

“Damn it, man, will you hold your tongue?” cried Carless 
irritably. “I’ll deal with Tom. He’s a pig-headed old 
fool, and can’t see beyond the end of his ugly nose. Does 
Mr. Burgoyne look like a wrong ’un, you doddering idiot?” 




CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


177 


He almost shouted the question, and his eyes and face were 
aflame with passion. 

Not one whit disturbed by his interlocutor’s rudeness, 
the landlord surveyed Stephen keenly from top to toe 
before replying. “No, I can’t say as he does,” he said 
slowly at last. 

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Carless impatiently. “And - 
what’s more, he isn’t. I’ll vouch for that. But we’re in 
a hole, Tom, and we want your help.” 

“Oh, do you now?” said Hindle drily. “Well, all I 
can say is that you’ve a rum way o’ seeking favors, Ned, 
my lad.” 

“Aye. I’m a hot-tempered fool,” agreed Carless, passing 
his hand wearily over his forehead and sighing. “I’ll ex¬ 
plain as far as I can, Tom. Through no fault of our own, 
Mr. Burgoyne and I got into a serious scrape last night and 
had some trouble to get out of it. I think the danger is 
spast; but one never knows, and I want you to promise that, 
if anyone enquire of you, you will say that Mr. Burgoyne 
occupied his bed here last night and all night.” 

“You say that you weren’t at fault?” The landlord 
looked dubious. 

“I give you my word,” said Carless earnestly. “A 
traitorous dog turned a frolic into something approaching 
a tragedy, and we are guiltless of aught save folly. You 
believe me?” 

“Aye, I believe you,” said the landlord simply. “I’ve 
never yet had cause to doubt your word, Ned.” 

“And you will do as I ask?” 

“That will he; I’ll see to that,” said a hearty feminine 
voice, as a round little woman with a round red face entered 
the room. “I’ve heard all as you’ve said, Ned, and it’s 
enough. There’s no need to tell aught as you don’t think 
wise. Folks makes out as it’s th’ women as is inquisitive, 
but I reckon they never met suchlike as Tom”—ahd Mrs. 
Hindle gazed scornfully at her crestfallen spouse. 


178 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“You’re a treasure, Martha,” cried Carless, seizing her 
round her plump waist and kissing her soundly. “Mr. 
Burgoyne and I left here for Mansford about nine this 
morning, didn’t we?” 

“That you did, you wicked lad,” said Martha, her eyes 
a-twinkle. “And much ado I had to get Mr. Burgoyne 
up in time, hadn’t I, sir?” 

“I fear you had,” laughed Stephen. “I sleep a thought 
heavily.” 

But Carless was in no mood for pleasantries. “That’s 
settled then,” he said brusquely. “ ’Tis time I was off. 
Good day to you, Martha, and for my sake see that Tom 
keeps his wits about him. Pray accompany me to the 
door, Burgoyne; I should like another word with you.” 

He walked swiftly down the passage and out into the 
open air, where he stopped and turned to his companion. 
“Remember what I said, Burgoyne,” he remarked weightily. 
“Change your clothes and go immediately to pay your 
respects to Lady Alverford.” 

“Your advice is little to my liking,” said Stephen doubt¬ 
fully. “Methinks ’twere wiser to keep close for a day or 
two until the hue and cry has died down.” 

“You are not skilled in the game of hide and seek, I 
fear,” sneered Carless. “To keep close, as you call it, is to 
advertise to the world that you have something to hide. 
My belief is that the boldest course is usually the safest, and 
that belief has enabled me to cheat the hangman more than 
once. So you will call upon Lady Alverford without delay. 
Farewell. You shall hear from me later.” And, without 
giving Stephen time to reply, he turned on his heel towards 
the stable yard, and within a minute was cantering away 
down the road. 

Left alone, Stephen watched his retreating figure until 
it disappeared from view; then, with a sigh, he turned into 
the inn *and went straight to his bedroom. He was weary, 
both of mind and body, and would fain have rested. Fur- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 179 

thermore, he was irritated by his late companion’s peculiar 
change of mood, and resented the authoritative—almost com¬ 
manding—tone in which he proffered his advice. Stephen 
Burgoyne was unused to receiving orders from anyone, and 
liked the experience but little; yet he recognized the sound¬ 
ness of the highwaymans counsel, and, without hesitation, 
he set about making his toilet in preparation for his call on 
Lady Alverford. 

Had he been less preoccupied, he might have observed 
that, when Carless took leave of him, a woman’s face was 
pressed close against one of the small panes of glass in the 
coffee-room window, and that a pair of bright eyes was 
watching him intently and without any attempt at con¬ 
cealment. But he was in the throes of introspection, and 
was oblivious to everything around him. 

And the same eyes watched him again, as, once more 
immaculately clad, he set out to walk to the Gables, and to 
judge by their expression their owner was ill-pleased that he 
had thought fit to wander abroad again so soon. 

As Stephen passed through the massive gates which gave 
access to Lord Alverford’s grounds, he halted suddenly to 
avoid collision with a gentleman who was in very obvious 
haste. 

“ ’Fore gad, Harry! you nearly ran me down,” he ex¬ 
claimed, as the other stopped abruptly. “You are in a 
vast hurry, methinks.” 

Immediately Lord Alverford began to behave in a most 
astonishing way. He capered like a clown, seized Stephen 
by the shoulders and shook him vigorously, then took his 
hand in his own and worked it up and down as though it 
were a pump handle, after which he stood back and gazed 
at his friend in incredulous delight. 

“Burn me and blister me, Steve! I can scarce believe 
my own eyes,” he cried at last. “Ya are free? D’ya 
mean to tell me ya are actually free, what?” 


180 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Yes. Em free—for the time being, anyway,” smiled 
Stephen. 

“And how did ya manage it? ’Pon my soul and honor, 
’tis incredible,” breathed Harry. And without giving 
Stephen time to reply he continued: 

“I was at my wits’ end when I saw ya ride away this 
morning a prisoner, b’jove. It seemed impossible that 
ya could bubble seven of ’em; odds too long, even count¬ 
ing that highwayman fellow on your side, what? I’m 
not much good at plotting and planning, as ya know, and 
after I’d had my lunch I’d almost decided to seek advice on 
the matter when I heard a rumor that ya had escaped. That 
was about an hour ago, but just then my lady mother started 
off on one of her lectures, and I had to wait until she had 
finished. And most cursed windy she was, b’jove,” he com¬ 
plained, with a sigh. 

“You w r ere on your way to the Nag’s Head, I suppose?” 

“Yes. I couldn’t credit the rumor, and I was off to 
make enquiries for myself.” 

“And may I ask whose advice you had thought of seek¬ 
ing on my behalf?” 

Harry colored to the bright hue of a peony. “Well—er 
—paint me and powder me if I hadn’t thought of taking— 
that is, you know—of speaking to Miss—er—Miss Ravens- 
court about it,” he stammered. 

Stephen smiled inwardly, but raised his eyebrows in 
pretended surprise. “Miss Ravenscourt!” he echoed. “How 
could she have helped? ’Tis unwise to trust secrets to the 
opposite sex, and anyway she is only a chit of a girl.” 

“Let me tell you she’s a doocid clever woman,” cried 
Harry hotly. “And as for trusting her with secrets—why, 
I’d trust her with—er—with—er-” 

“Shall we say, your name?” suggested Stephen slyly—to 
his friend’s unbounded confusion. “Doubtless she is all 
that you think her, Harry, and that would anoear to be high 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


181 


praise indeed, eh? Yet I should feel happier if you re¬ 
frained from confiding in her—at all events for the present.” 

“Very well,” consented Harry—not very readily, how¬ 
ever. “Were ya coming to see me, Steve?” 

“No. I am going to call on Lady Alverford.” 

“My mother!” Harry eyed his friend with profound 
admiration. “ ’Pon my soul and honor, ya are a bold fellow! 
She’ll give ya the sharp edge of her tongue, for she is 
mightily offended that ya haven’t called sooner.” 

“Humph! Well, you know the reason for that, Harry. 
However, I must invent some plausible excuse for my seem¬ 
ing neglect.” 

Harry shook his head dubiously. “Ya’ll not find that 
an easy task,” he said. “My mother is doocid difficult to 
deceive, b’jove. She’ll smell a rat as sure as fate, and if 
she does, she’ll never r^st until she’s ferreted it out.” 

The two men turned off the main drive on to a by-path 
that offered a short cut to the house; and a minute or two 
later the rumble and grind of wheels told them that a car¬ 
riage was being driven rapidly along the road which they 
had left. They turned abruptly, but the vehicle was hidden 
from their gaze by the undergrowth of the wood through 
which they were walking, and they were forced to proceed 
on their way with their curiosity ungratified. 

“Methought that sounded like a carriage, Harry,” said 
Stephen uneasily. 

“So it did,” agreed Harry. “Somebody else going to 
call on my mother, I should say.” 

“Who it is likely to be, do you think?” 

“Dunno.” Harry yawned. “Perhaps the parson— 
though he usually w r alks, now I come to think of it. But 
it might be any one of fifty people, b’jove, for my mother 
is a bit of a personage hereabouts.” 

“Are her visitors likely to arrive before we do?” 

“They’ll beat us by a few minutes. Why do ya ask?” 

“Oh, I was only thinking that I should have preferred 


182 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Lady Alverford to be alone.” 

“Alone? Gad! ya ought to thank ya stars that she 
won’t be alone, for ’twill save ya some plaguey aw’kward 
explanations if I am any judge.” 

Stephen did not pursue the subject. The sound of the 
passing carriage had awakened in his mind the fear that 
the day’s adventures were not yet over; and the thought 
that the vehicle might possibly be carrying Colonel Oldfield 
or his niece filled him with trepidation. If one or both of 
them should be with Lady Alverford when he put in an 
appearance, the situation would be appallingly difficult, and 
it seemed to him that it might even become fraught with 
danger. Yet his pride forbade him to draw back now. 
Indeed, it would be folly to do so; his very audacity might 
be his salvation, and save him from the recognition he feared. 
In it he must trust, for he was determined to pursue the 
matter to the bitter end, regardless of the consequences. 

And his worst fears were realized when he preceded 
Harry into Lady Alverford’s drawing-room. Averill sat 
facing him as he entered, and her eyes rested on him with 
a puzzled look of enquiry as he advanced to pay his respects 
to his hostess. The smile which was playing about the 
piquant face of Miss Sylvia Ravenscourt faded of a 
moment as her gaze sought his—only to break again in a 
significance which, fortunately for Stephen’s peace of 
mind, he failed to observe; whilst Colonel Oldfield, 
who was standing with his back to the fireplace and 
his hands under his coat-tails, regarded him with staring 
eyes which matched a gaping mouth and gave to their 
owner a marked and ludicrous resemblance to a codfish. 

The intense embarrassment which Stephen felt, but which 
was hidden from his beholders by a cool air of assurance 
which did him credit, was not lessened by Lady Alverford’s 
greeting. It was cold and formal, and not at all in accor¬ 
dance with the welcome that, despite Harry’s warning, he 
had expected from one who, in the past, had always shown 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


183 


pleasure in his society, and who had led him to believe that 
she had more than a little affection for him. He could 
not credit that her frigidity was due to the trivial offence 
of which Harry had spoken; his sin went deeper than that, 
and as she, with undisguised reluctance, presented him to 
each of her guests in turn, he racked his brains in a futile 
endeavor to find the key to her change of attitude. 

Had he been told the true reason for her displeasure 
he would have been surprised beyond measure. It was 
Lady Alverford’s dearest wish that her son should marry 
Lady Averill Stapleton, and the arrival in the neighborhood 
of so markedly eligible a bachelor as Stephen Burgoyne was 
little to her liking. She was a shrewd woman, and she was 
fully alive to Harry’s indifferent merits as a suitor. She 
knew that it was unlikely that he might capture the heart 
and hand of such a clever, discerning young woman as 
Averill without long and assiduous wooing. His short¬ 
comings were fairly obvious, even to a mother, and those 
shortcomings would be infinitely more apparent in compari¬ 
son with the more dashing and attractive qualities of other 
gallants. Thus it was her object to keep the field clear for 
him. If she were successful in this, she imagined that 
Averill would eventually succumb to Harry’s persistent de¬ 
votion, and she adopted towards Stephen her attitude of cold 
formality in the hope that it might help to induce him to 
depart for London with as little delay as possible. 

So, having done her duty as a hostess in making him 
known to her guests, she gave him her shoulder and entered 
into subdued conversation with the Colonel. 

His nerves on edge, and heartily wishing himself any¬ 
where but here, Stephen turned in hopeful expectation of 
finding Harry at his elbow. But in this he was disappointed. 
His friend was standing with Miss Ravenscourt at the far 
side of the large apartment gazing into a cabinet which was 
filled with curios, and it was evident from his eager face 


184 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


and his obliviousness to everything but his charming compan¬ 
ion that Stephen might expect no aid from him. 

Thus he had no choice but to devote himself to Averill. 
In other circumstances such an opportunity would have 
given him unalloyed pleasure, but, as it was, his instinct 
warned him that all was not well, and that he would have 
to step warily as a cat. 

Nor was Averill’s manner reassuring. Her eyes met 
his with a calm scrutiny which he had some difficulty in 
sustaining, and although she moved her skirts so that he 
might seat himself on the settee at her side, the action re¬ 
vealed no friendliness, but conveyed the impression that its 
motive was merely politeness. 

She answered his conventional remarks with monosyl¬ 
lables, and evinced not the faintest trace of interest in any¬ 
thing he said. This irritated him. Here was he almost 
tete-a-tete with the woman who was the unwitting cause 
of his recent misfortunes and with whom he had longed to 
become formally acquainted, and, she was showing him very 
plainly that he bored her! Tore gad! but he would rouse 
her interest somehow before he left that house, even though 
he once again made a fool of himself in so doing. Also, 
no matter what it cost him, he would find out if she had 
any suspicion that he was one with the prisoner to whom 
she had been so kind. Discretion warned him that the 
course he proposed to pursue was a dangerous one; but his 
temper, tried almost beyond endurance by the mishaps of 
the past twenty-four hours, was beginning to fray, and he 
threw discretion to the winds. 

“You are distrait, madam,” he said at last, in a somewhat 
insolent tone. “You must forgive me if my poor efforts 
to entertain you are not to your liking.” 

A spark of anger kindled in Averill’s eyes, and she flushed 
slightly. “It would seem that we have naught in common, 
sir,” she said icily. 

“That I can scarce believe,” returned Stephen, wfth a 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


185 


tolerant smile that made the spark of anger glow still 
brighter. “People of intelligence invariably have something 
in common, and, unless your looks belie you, your intellect 
matches mine.” 

Averill could hardly believe her ear9. Never since she 
left the schoolroom had anyone, apart from her uncle, ven¬ 
tured to take her to task about anything, yet here was a per¬ 
fect stranger—a man!—admonishing her as he might have 
admonished a refractory child. Her anger was now a flame 
that blazed in eyes and cheeks, and Stephen smiled inwardly 
as he noted it. 

“You flatter me, sir,” she said cuttingly. “If your 
intellect be on a par with your insolence, then you flatter 
me far beyond my merits.” 

“You think me insolent?” he asked pleasantly. 

“Insolent and boorish,” she replied succinctly. 

“I am vastly unfortunate, methinks,” he sighed. “Think 
you not that you judge me over harshly on so short an 
acquaintance, madam? You surely would not so hopelessly 
condemn a man within ten minutes of your first seeing him.” 

She smiled satirically. “A woman does not require half 
that time in which to form a reliable estimate of a man,” 
she retorted. “Besides, an I am not mistaken, this is not 
the only occasion on which I have seen you,” she added, eye¬ 
ing him narrowly. 

“No? Then we have met before, you think?” he queried 
lightly, giving no sign of the uneasiness which her retort 
caused him. 

“We did not meet on the occasion of which I speak, 
sir,” she replied coldly. “You passed me on the road two 
or three days ago, and from the way you eyed me I should 
scarce have thought that you would have forgotten me so 
soon.” 

“My memory is not at fault, madam; it had indeed been 
a poor one else. But it hadn’t occurred to me that you 
might recollect the incident.” 


186 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Nor should I have done so had it not been for your un¬ 
mannerly stare,” she said quickly. “May I ask if you 
eye in that manner every woman you meet?” 

“I do not, madam.” Stephen smiled easily. “Such 
beauty as yours I encounter but seldom, and, as a rule, 
I fear I am blind to the charms of your sex.” 

“And ’twill please me well if you are blind to mine 
also,” she said acidly. “Your admiration is as little to my 
liking as your conversation, Mr. Burgoyne.” 

“Then I am unfortunate indeed, madam,” said Stephen, 
apparently unmoved. “I err on one occasion with my 
eyes, on a second with my tongue. Well, I can only offer 
you my humble apologies and beg forgiveness for my sins. 
Tell me that I do not beg in vain, madam.” 

She made no reply, but her lips curled disdainfully. 
Stephen still lacked the information he sought, and her 
face told him nothing, although her hostility made him fear 
the worst. 

“You are silent, madam,” he said, with mock reproach. 
“ ’Twould seem my sins are even greater than I had thought. 
Surely it cannot be that I have erred on yet a third 
occasion ?” 

A slow, inscrutable smile spread over Averill’s face—a 
smile which might have meant anything or nothing. It gave 
Stephen no comfort, nor did the reply which it accompanied. 

“An uneasy conscience is an unenviable possession,” she 
said, with apparent irrelevance. “Let it suffice you to 
learn that a woman never forgives the sins of those whom 
she dislikes; and spare me further words, sir.” 

Stephen’s face darkened, and his lips came together in 
a hard, straight line. “As you will, madam,” he said, in 
tones which matched the steely glint in his narrowed eyes. 
“But before I relieve you of my irksome society, hear me 
make a vow. You will forget both my sins and your dislike 
of me ere the harvest moon has reached her zenith. You 
hear?” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


187 


“Aye, I hear.” She smiled contemptuously. “ ’Tis a 
man’s vow, and the vows of men are mostly wasted breath.” 

“Think you so?” He rose to his feet and stood looking 
down at her. “Well, think as you please, madam; your 
views are unimportant. ’Twill be as I say—nay, ’twill 
be far more than that. I will make you regard my sins 
as virtues; I will transform your dislike into love. Into love, 
madam; remember that.” 

He did not give her time to reply, but turning sharply 
on his heel, he strode across the room to take his leave of 
his hostess. 

Averill watched him go with incredulous eyes. Probably 
she was, at the moment, incapable of speech, for she was even 
too astounded to be angry. She sat like one in a dream 
whilst Stephen said farewell to Lady Alverford, failing 
even to note that the latter did not invite her departing guest 
to repeat his visit. She saw the frown on her uncle’s brow 
and the almost imperceptible nod with which he acknow¬ 
ledged Stephen’s bow, but their significance was entirely 
lost on her. 

Only when Stephen kissed Sylvia Ravenscourt’s dainty 
fingers did her mind begin to function properly. For 
Sylvia was cordially expressing her pleasure at having met 
Mr. Burgoyne, and trusting that the acquaintance would be 
renewed at an early date. 

“Ya need have no fear of that, Miss Ravenscourt,” inter¬ 
posed Harry, with a laugh. “If ya’ll permit me, I’ll bring 
Steve with me tomorrow when I come to teach ya to throw 
a fly, what?” 

“I shall be charmed,” said Sylvia, bestowing a bewitch¬ 
ing smile on both men impartially. “And I am sure 
that Averill will, too, for ’tis seldom one meets such pleasant 
and congenial company so far from town.” 

Averill turned a stony face towards her friend. “Please 
speak for yourself, Sylvia,” she said, in clear, cold tones 
which commanded the attention of everyone in the room. 


18S 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Town gallants, Corinthians, macaronies, bang-up bloods, 
and all the other fops who rejoice in similar charming 
titles do not appeal to me; I prefer men. That is why 
I only visit London when I am compelled. Therefore I 
fancy that Mr. Burgoyne—or Buck Burgoyne, as his ad¬ 
mirers call him—would find little to amuse him at Oldfield 
Grange. Besides, he will no doubt be returning to his usual 
haunts ere long; there can be nothing to tempt him to pro¬ 
long his visit to a barbarous county like Lancashire.” 

If she had intended to astonish her hearers, she certainly 
succeeded. Sylvia bit her lips and tossed her head in 
petulant anger; Colonel Oldfield scratched the lobe of his 
ear in perplexity; and Lady Alverford frowned, for she 
considered that Averill was guilty of a grave breach of 
etiquette—in addition to which she resented a speech which 
reflected quite as much on her son as it did on Stephen. 
Harry’s indignation showed plain in his frank face, and he 
would have instantly taken up the cudgels in defence of his 
friend had not Stephen, who was the only one who evinced 
no sign of either embarrassment or displeasure, stopped him 
with a gesture. 

“Permit me to inform you that you are mistaken, Lady 
Averill,” said Stephen, his eyes fixed unwaveringly upon 
hers. “I find your county of Lancashire delightful, and 
its inhabitants both charming and interesting. Their man¬ 
ners are refreshing to a jaded Londoner; and although their 
ideas of hospitality seem peculiar, yet they are doubtless 
sound. Thus I propose to linger here awhile that I may 
study them further. In the meantime, permit me to wish 
you all a very good day.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


renders Stephen's vow vastly difficult of redemption 

T HE end of the week that followed his disastrous call on 
Lady Alverford found Stephen inclined to regret his 
avowed determination to stay in Lancashire. The time 
hung heavily on his hands, for Harry, attracted to Old¬ 
field Grange like a moth to a candle, had little time to 
spare for his friend, but danced attendance on Miss Sylvia 
Ravenscourt until Colonel Oldfield, upon whose temper 
Harry had a most deplorable effect, was well-nigh demented. 

The hue and cry which Stephen had fully expected would 
follow his escape failed to materialize; at all events, he had 
observed nothing in the demeanor of those with whom he 
came in daily contact which might lead him to suppose 
that he was an object of suspicion. Nor had he seen any¬ 
thing of Crisp or his satellites; if those worthies were pur¬ 
suing the ends of the law, their pursuit evidently did not 
lead them in the direction of the Nag’s Head at Bolderburn. 

Strangely enough, this did not altogether please him. 
Subconsciously, he had looked forward to pitting his wits 
against those of the keepers of the King’s peace, and the 
dangers of his position had thrilled rather than alarmed 
him. But as nothing happened to disturb the even tenor 
of his ways, he at length came to the conclusion that he 
had seen the last of the affair, and set about the onerous 
task of finding something to amuse him in a tiny village to 
whose inhabitants he was a complete stranger. 

Yet had he known the High Constable a little more 
intimately he might have felt less secure. Mr. Crisp, though 
189 


190 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


inclined to cowardice, was no fool; and his failure to bring 
his prisoner to justice had obtained him severe censure 
which rankled in his mind and made him register a solemn 
vow that he would either effect a recapture or else retire 
from a service which regarded him with such disfavor. 
But he was too wily to advertise his designs; and there was 
not a soul in Bolderburn who suspected that the new ostler 
at the Crown, the hostelry that was the Nag’s Head only 
competitor, was one of the High Constable’s most trusted 
lieutenants. 

This man spent more time in and around the Nag’s Head 
than appeared becoming in the servant of a rival house, but 
Stephen had not even noticed him. The victim of a bore¬ 
dom which was the outcome of what he inwardly termed 
his own mulish folly, Stephen was only too glad when night 
came and gave him the society of the villagers. Each even¬ 
ing found him in the snug bar-parlor in the company of 
the Hindles, father and son, and those of their customers 
who were most privileged. 

He found much to interest him in these men who moved 
and had their being in a sphere of life so far removed from 
his own, and, after their mutual shyness had been dissipated, 
he was surprised and pleased to find that he had much in 
common with them. They were sportsmen to a man; they 
talked of prize-fighting, dogs, horses, shooting, and hunting 
as keenly as they discussed the prospects of the harvest or 
the condition of their cattle, and Stephen joined whole¬ 
heartedly in their conversations. At first, their ingrained 
distrust of strangers made them suspicious of his motives; 
but after two or three nights in his company they forgot 
their suspicions, and began to treat him with the respect 
which they considered the just due of one who was un¬ 
doubtedly an authority on everything pertaining to sport 
of all kinds. 

But the daylight found the villagers engrossed in the 
unending task of earning their daily bread, and Stephen had 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


191 


perforce to cast about him further in order to combat his 
ennui. He explored the countryside in almost every direc¬ 
tion both on horseback and afoot, but its appealing beauty 
lost nine-tenths of its charm by his lack of a companion with 
whom to share it. 

He had been further irritated by his failure to find any 
trace of Sir Randolph Gorst. Enquiry at the latter’s house 
had elicited the reply that Gorst had returned to London 
for an indefinite period, and Stephen was compelled to post¬ 
pone the retribution which he had sworn to mete out to the 
traitorous baronet. 

One afternoon he set out on foot towards Oldfield Grange. 
This was the first time he had journeyed in that direction, 
his pride having hitherto forbidden him to allow anyone 
to suspect for a moment that he might be interested in 
the house or its tenants. The sky was overcast and 
threatening, and it appeared that the delightful, warm 
spring weather of the past week had almost come to an 
end. Before Stephen had covered two miles a sharp shower 
warned him that he would be ill-advised to proceed farther, 
and with a vague feeling of disappointment he retaced his 
steps to the inn. He reached it just as the rain recom¬ 
menced—this time with the evident intention of continuing 
indefinitely; and he sighed dolefully as he opened the door 
of the small private sitting-room which he had hired, for wet 
weather would make his lot still more difficult to bear. 

“Good afternoon, Stephen.” 

He stopped dead on the threshold, still grasping in his 
hand the knob of the open door. He gazed in surprise 
at the radiant vision which confronted him, but his face 
betrayed no sign of the pleasure which would have lighted 
the eyes of most men who had suddenly found themselves 
in the presence of one so beautiful. 

For that Stephen’s visitor was beautiful the most captious 
critic could not have denied. The transparent fairness of 
her flawless complexion was rendered the more wonderful 


192 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


by the night-black hair which curled about her ears and by 
the bright crimson hue of her small, sensuous mouth. The 
slightly aquiline nose and firm, round chin somewhat belied 
the appealing softness of the expression which she now 
showed to Stephen, but this seeming contradictoriness only 
added to her allurement. Exception might perhaps have 
been taken to the color of her eyes, which were a peculiar 
slate-blue; but the perfect arch of the black brows above them 
and the long curling lashes which fringed their half-closed 
lids made one forget their hue, and remember only their pro¬ 
vocative glance. 

And the beauty of her face was equalled, if not excelled, 
by the beauty of her figure. Nearly as tall as Stephen, 
her generous proportions were such as might have aroused 
the envy of Venus herself. The firm set of her deep bosom 
was emphasized by the litheness of a supple waist, which 
was in turn glorified by the sweeping lines of the hips and 
the full thigh, the outline of which was revealed by the 
manner in which she had disposed her riding-habit about 
her. She stood before the fire with her right elbow rest¬ 
ing on the mantleshelf and her bare, slim right hand hang¬ 
ing indolently down, whilst the foot with which she gently 
tapped the fender was shapely, and distinctly small for a 
woman of her size. From hat to boots she was attired in 
unrelieved black, and the sombreness of her attire added a 
subtle mystery to the entrancing picture which she made. 

“What is the matter, Stephen? You regard me as 
though I were a grisly phantom. Are you not pleased to 
see me?” she asked, with wistful raillery, as she abandoned 
her position by the fireplace and advanced towards him with 
both hands outstretched. 

“Did you expect me to be pleased?” he countered curtly, 
closing the door and walking forward into the room. He 
ignored the hands held out to him, and his visitor, with a 
slight shrug of her shoulders at his conduct, turned and 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


193 


seated herself with unstudied grace in an old high-backed 
armchair. 

“I expected you to feign pleasure even if you do not feel 
it,” she retorted, a sharp note apparent in her voice. “ ’Tis 
a cavalier welcome you give a woman for whom, not long 
ago, you professed undying love.” 

Stephen frowned, but the slight flush which ran over his 
cheeks told his visitor that her shaft had found its mark. 

“It ill becomes you to remind me of that, madam,” he re¬ 
torted grimly. “It belongs to the past, and the past is dead.” 

“The past is never dead,” she returned swiftly. “You 
may bury it as deep as you please and conveniently forget 
its funeral, but it will rise and confront you in its own good 
time. ’Tis the one thing which has the power to defy the 
grave, Stephen.” 

“Maybe.” He made a gesture of impatience.. “But I 
trust you did not come here to discuss the past, madam, 
for it interests me not one whit.” 

She winced, and a hard little smile marred for a moment 
her loveliness. “No? Yet methinks I have some news 
for you that will make the past of vital interest to you. 
You did not expect to meet me hereabouts?” 

“I knew your husband’s home was in Lancashire, but 
it had not occurred to me that London could possibly allow 
its queen of beauty to rusticate in the north,” he said 
cynically. 

“I might say the same of London’s Buck Burgoyne,” she 
retorted coolly. “May I ask what or who it is that has 
kept him here for so long?” 

“How do you know how long I have been here?” he 
queried sharply. 

“You are rude, and you avoid my question.” She 
laughed lightly. “Well, I will answer yours, and then 
perhaps you will profit by example and answer mine. You 
may recollect that my house, Blentham Lodge, is at Worple- 
den, and at present I am residing there. A week ago I was 


194 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


out riding when my horse cast a shoe not a hundred yards 
from this inn, and I sought refreshment in the coffee-room 
here whilst my groom took him to the smith yonder. I 
saw you from the window in the company of Ned Carless, 
so I know that you have been here a week at the very least.” 

“Is that all?” The question was asked carelessly and 
seemed of no importance, but it brought a peculiar glint to 
his companion’s eyes. 

“That is all for the present,” she replied enigmatically. 
“And my curiosity still remains unsatisfied,” she reminded 
him. 

Stephen sighed impatiently. “If you must know, madam, 
I was journeying south when my horse, a valuable animal 
to which I am much attached, sprained a-” 

She stopped him with a gesture. “I asked you for the 
reason; I pray you spare me the excuse,” she said contemp¬ 
tuously. 

He flushed angrily. “What do you mean, madam?” 
he cried. 

“What I say. I am not quite a fool, Stephen, as perhaps 
you may remember.” 

He made no reply, but taking a snuff-box from his pocket, 
drummed idly on its lid with his finger-tips. She watched 
him for a moment with hard eyes; then her expression 
softened, and she spoke in a low, sweet voice. 

“Stephen, dear, I did not come here to quarrel with you,” 
she said. “I assure you my purpose was vastly different. 
Have you noticed my clothes?” 

He looked his astonishment at her apparently irrelevant 
question, and then smiled cynically. “I have. They are, 
as usual, perfect; and black becomes you admirably,” he said. 

“I scarcely think I deserved that, Stephen,” she reproached 
him quietly. “I did not ask your opinion of their fit or 
their appearance; I only hoped that you had noted their 
hue.” 

“And so I have. Did I not say so?” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


195 


“You did, but ’tis obvious that it has no significance for 
you.” Her eyes were very bright, but suddenly it seemed 
to Stephen that their gleam was due to unshed tears, and 
he looked at her in troubled perplexity. Then comprehen¬ 
sion dawned in his face, and he took an impulsive step to¬ 
wards her. 

“Forgive me, Barbara,” he begged contritely. “I am a 
hard-hearted fool. You are in mourning?” 

“Yes.” The word was scarcely more than a whisper. 

“For whom?” 

She raised her eyes to his, and looked at him long and 
searchingly ere she replied. “For my husband,” she 
breathed, at last. 

“Your husband!” echoed Stephen dully. “You mean 
to say that you are a widow?” 

“Yes, Stephen,” she replied, watching his face intently. 

He stood irresolute for a moment, nonplussed by her un¬ 
expected and unwelcome revelation. Then he commenced 
to murmur polite expressions of sympathy; but before he had 
said a dozen words she interrupted him. 

“Please don’t, Stephen,” she said quietly. “Such words 
are a mockery between you and me, for you know full well 
that I did not love my husband.” 

“Yet you married him,” he sneered, his manner changing 
abruptly. 

“True, I married him, as you say; but I didn’t know that 
within a month I should be sharing his favors with a Spanish 
dancer.” 

“You took the risk with your eyes wide open, madam,” 
he retorted mercilessly, his mouth hard and his eyes stern. 
“Even before you became betrothed to him you were warned 
a thousand times. His dissolute character was an open 
book to all who knew him, his face a plain index to his 
character to those who did not. But warnings went for 
naught; you laughed at everyone—myself included—who 


196 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


tried to turn you from your purpose, and you persisted in 
gratifying your foolish ambition.” 

“My ambition?” She flushed slightly, but met his eyes 
boldly. 

“Yes, your ambition. You cannot deny that it was 
simply and solely ambition that influenced you. The lure 
of a title was too dazzling to be disregarded by a woman 
of your type; the prospect of becoming the Countess of 
Meltondene drew you as inevitably as a magnet draws a 
needle. So if you have paid dearly for the privileges of 
rank, ’tis scarce fitting that you should complain.” 

“Stephen, please, please be merciful,” she cried, holding 
out to him an imploring hand. “I-” 

“Were you then so compassionate to me that you can 
expect me to be merciful?” he demanded fiercely. 

“But, Stephen, I was poor and my life had been hard, 
and I longed for the ease and luxury that only wealth could 
give,” she pleaded, tears in her eyes and voice. “I did but 
grasp the golden opportunity to appease that longing, and 
surely that was not a very terrible crime.” 

“I am not your judge, madam, but if you feel it incum¬ 
bent upon you to state your case to me, at least be good 
enough to state it in full. Had it been only wealth and 
luxury after which you hankered, I could have given you 
those in full measure—as well as a love whiph would have 
been yours for all time. But I was only a commoner; and 
love makes but a poor showing against rank in the lists 
where ambition is arbiter.” 

“You are cruel, Stephen, cruel and hard,” she murmured 
brokenly. “I was young; I didn’t realize what I was doing.” 

“The time-worn, threadbare excuse of your sex!” he com¬ 
mented scathingly. “You were old enough to know what 
manner of man Lord Meltondene was—in fact, you made 
no secret of the fact that you did know. And you were 
old enough to understand fully that you were deliberately 
sacrificing love to marry him.” 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


197 


“I didn’t understand—I didn’t,” she cried wildly, rising 
to her feet in her emotion, and placing her hand on his arm. 

He thrust the hand away roughly. “It gives me no 
pleasure to remind you that two nights before your wedding 
you told me with your own false lips—aye, with your arms 
around my neck and tears in your eyes—that you loved me 
as I loved you, but that your decision was unalterable,” he 
went on harshly. “You even hinted that your marriage 
need make no breach between us. Do you remember, 
madam? ’Twas in that unguarded moment I saw your 
naked soul and, for the first time, understood what manner 
of woman it was that I had worshipped. And at that 
instant my love for you died—sacrificed on the altar of your 
ambition. You had been mistaken in your estimate of me, 
madam. I was no angel, but I was at least too fastidious 
to take from a woman gifts which only her husband could 
in honor accept. That was five years ago; as you said just 
now, the past never dies!” 

She quailed beneath the lash of his scorn, and for a time 
there was silence in the room—a silence broken at intervals 
by long, shuddering sobs which seemed to rend the woman’s 
very soul. At last, with an obvious, effort, she regained 
control of herself, and lifted a lovely, tear-stained face 
to his. 

“Oh, Stephen, if you only knew how differently I had 
pictured this meeting,” she said wistfully. “I had thought 
your love was a finer, greater thing than it now shows itself; 
and love which cannot forgive belies its name.” 

“I repeat, madam, that my love is dead,” he replied. 
“Until you murdered it, it would have done anything and 
forgiven anything at your command. Your lightest word 
was its law, your most fleeting glance its treasure. But 
your eyes were fixed on the bright star of ambition, and ruth¬ 
lessly you trampled beneath your feet the love that knelt 
imploring in your path. Life has been prodigal in its gifts 
to you, madam, but you cannot have everything.” 


198 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“I don’t ask for everything,” she cried quickly. “My 
lesson is learnt, Stephen—learnt in the school of bitter ex¬ 
perience; it is engraved on my heart, ineffaceable and mock¬ 
ing. There is no need for you to recount my follies; I 
know them only too well. The choice between substance 
and shadow was offered to me and in my inexperience I 
grasped at the shadow. My title is empty and barren, and 
how gladly would I barter it for love!” 

“You are prone to barter, madam; methinks you have 
the soul of a huckster,” he observed relentlessly. “You are 
like a child who, having chosen the highly-colored confection 
and found it bitter, would fain change it for the less attrac¬ 
tive white one which it knows to be sweet. But the shop¬ 
keeper will not permit the exchange, and, of all shop¬ 
keepers, life is the most adamant.” 

“I know, I know,” she murmured. “But you are not 
a shopkeeper, Stephen, and I implore you to give me one 
more chance. I love you, dear—’twas too late when I 
found out the magnitude of my love—and I ask you to love 
me again just a little.” She drew her superb figure to its 
full height, and with a slow movement, full of infinite 
grace, she turned completely round. “Look at me, Stephen. 
Is it very difficult for a man to love a woman such as I am, 
despite her failings and her misdeeds? I am young, I am 
beautiful, and—wonder of wonders!—I am again free to 
wed where I will. Ah, Stephen, I beg you not to think me 
unwomanly in speaking thus; remember that I am fighting 
for my happiness. Take me, Stephen. I will go anywhere, 
do anything, be everything you wish; my love shall delight 
you by its passion, charm you by its humility, and astonish 
you by its intensity.” 

She had moved close to him as she was speaking, and now, 
without warning, she flung her arms around his neck and 
pressed her beautiful body close against his. Her dewy 
crimson mouth sought first his brow, then his cheek, and 
last of all his lips, and, despite himself, Stephen thrilled to 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


199 


its passionate caress. The blood coursed through his veins 
in a mad riot, and instinctively his arms went round her, 
and his lips gave to hers measure for measure. For a 
moment radiant joy flooded the woman’s being; then she 
shuddered as her instinct warned her that his passion was 
counterfeit. But still she clung to him, determined to 
enjoy this fleeting ecstasy to the full ere he recovered his 
poise; and at that instant the door opened. 

Oblivious to everything but Stephen, Lady Meltondene 
had failed to hear the timid knock, and Stephen was unable 
to release himself from her clinging arms before the door 
was opened wide. He stood immediately facing the opening, 
and to his consternation he saw that Miss Sylvia Ravens- 
court was close behind the pretty serving-maid whose inten¬ 
tion it had been to announce her, and that she could not 
fail to observe his compromising position. 

The maid stopped in confusion on the threshold and 
blushed vividly. “Oh, I—I beg your—-your pardon, sir; 
I—I thought you were alone,” she stammered. “Miss 
Ravenscourt has called to see you.” 

Lady Meltondene turned swiftly, and the maid shrank 
before the anger in her face. But Stephen, with a cool¬ 
ness of demeanor widely at variance with the tumult within 
him, gently thrust her aside, and, smiling reassuringly at 
the maid, said quietly: 

“Your error was quite natural. Please show Miss 
Ravenscourt in.” 

The maid disappeared hastily, and Sylvia, disdainful of 
mien and cold of eye, entered the room. She ignored the 
chair which Stephen placed for her, and stopped him with 
an imperative gesture when he would have presented her 
to his companion. 

“Lady Meltondene and I are already acquainted,” she 
said frigidly, eyeing Barbara slowly from top to toe with 
that magnificent insolence which is the exclusive possession 


200 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


of women. “I must ask pardon of you both. I fear my 
arrival was a trifle inopportune, and that I intrude.” 

“Not at all, Miss Ravenscourt,” said Lady Meltondene 
sweetly, resuming her seat with consummate self-possession, 
and returning Sylvia’s stare with interest. “Stephen and 
I are very old friends, and we had not met for a long period. 
Hence the situation in which you surprised us.” 

Stephen almost ground his teeth at the subtle suggestion 
which this speech conveyed, but it was strictly true, and he 
was unable to refute one word of it. Nevertheless, he 
would have spoken had not Lady Meltondene, who was 
watching him covertly but closely, again forestalled him. 

“Stephen did not tell me he was expecting another visitor 
besides myself,” she continued, in the same honeyed accents. 

“He was not expecting me,” said Sylvia sharply. 

“Ah! A surprise visit, eh? And doubtless a welcome 
one. Men are always the same susceptible creatures from 
their teens to their seventies, and I fear we women foolishly 
pander to their weakness.” She sighed. “But the world has 
a censorious tongue, Miss Ravenscourt. A widow may visit 
a bachelor’s apartment with impunity, but a young un¬ 
married woman, if she would avoid scandal, must be more 
circumspect.” 

Sylvia’s cheeks flamed and her eyes blazed with wrath. 
But the tone of her voice was frigidity itself as she made 
reply. 

“You jump to conclusions with astonishing agility, Lady 
Meltondene,” she said acidly. “But ’tis not always wise 
to measure others by one’s own standard; every woman does 
not enjoy the extreme intimacy with the opposite sex which 
would appear to be your privilege. Indeed, ’tis my misfor¬ 
tune to be scarcely acquainted with Mr. Burgoyne—a state 
of things which you may be surprised to learn gives me 
infinite satisfaction.” 

Lady Meltondene smiled maliciously. “That last re¬ 
mark will be difficult to explain away when I am gone,” she 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


201 


said, rising to her feet in preparation for departure. “But 
there was no need for you to worry, Miss Ravenscourt; 
believe me, I am discretion itself.” • 

“You have that reputation!” retorted Sylvia swiftly, with 
a smile of infinite meaning. “Yet, lest my seeming indiscre¬ 
tion should cause you a sleepless night, let me say that my 
reason for seeking Mr. Burgoyne is simply that I am the 
bearer of a message.” 

“From whom?” The question was asked sharply, and 
suspicion gleamed in Lady Meltondene’s eyes as she glanced 
quickly from one to the other of her companions. 

Sylvia arched her eyebrows in supercilious surprise. “For¬ 
give me, madam,” she said, with a mocking little courtsey. 
“Despite what I have seen, I cannot believe that you are 
so deep in Mr. Burgoyne’s confidence as that!” 

“A foolish question prompted by idle curiosity, my dear,” 
explained Lady Meltondene airily, shrugging her beautiful 
shoulders. “I pray you both excuse me; my groom will be 
getting impatient of waiting out there in the rain. Stay 
and receive your message, Stephen; there is no need for you 
to escort me to my horse, and I would not have you keep 
Miss Ravenscourt waiting. Farewell, Miss Ravenscourt; 
give my love to Averill, won’t you? It has been a pleasure 
to meet you again.” 

She walked towards the door which Stephen, who had 
stood in acute discomfort and embarrassment during this 
rapier-play of words, now held open for her; but as she came 
abreast of him she stopped, and gazed at him fondly. 

“I trust I shall see you again in a day or so, Stephen 
dear,” she said, in a low voice which was, however, sufficient¬ 
ly loud to enable Sylvia to hear clearly every word she 
said. “Until then, farewell. It has been a wonderful 
meeting.” 

Before he could divine her purpose, she, with amazing 
adroitness, lifted her hand to his head, and, leaning forward, 
kissed him full on the mouth. The*, with triumph in her 


202 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


face and bearing, she disappeared into the passage, leaving 
behind her a man speechless with astonishment and rage 
and a woman sick with disappointment and disgust. 

For a motnent neither spoke; then Stephen closed the door 
and turned to his companion. 

“I await your censure, Miss Ravenscourt,” he said, with 
a grim coolness which he did not feel. 

“Then you wait in vain, Mr. Burgoyne,” she retorted 
stiffly. “Congratulations would surely be more fitting.” 

“Congratulations? Upon what?” His astonishment 
was obviously unfeigned. 

Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “From what I have seen 
I naturally concluded that you and Lady Meltondene are 
betrothed,” she $aid coldly. 

A dark flush mounted to Stephen’s cheeks, and he frowned 
blackly. “Your conclusion is entirely erroneous,” he said 
vehemently. 

“You positively amaze me, Mr. Burgoyne,” she declared. 
“I frankly confess that I am mystified. But perhaps there 
is some explanation of which I am not aware; ’tis not always 
wise to judge by appearances, I know,” she concluded, with 
a faint hint of friendliness in her voice. 

But Stephen’s pride forbade him to clear himself at the 
expense of a woman, and not a word could he say in his 
own defence which would not reflect discreditably upon 
Lady Meltondene. He was in a cleft stick—an unpleasant 
position from which he must perforce make no effort to 
extricate himself, trusting to chance or his good fairy to 
perform the task for him. 

“I regret that circumstances do not permit me to offer 
any explanation, Miss Ravenscourt,” he said gravely. 

“Ah!” The exclamation spoke volumes. “Then you 
wish me to draw my own conclusions?” 

“I would much prefer that you wiped from your memory 
all that you have seen,” he said earnestly, “although I know 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


203 


that to be impossible. Nevertheless, I beg of you to be as 
charitable to me as you can.” 

“In other words, you would like me to be silent,” she said 
contemptuously. “You will get from me the treatment you 
deserve, sir—no more, no less. Oh, Mr. Burgoyne, I have 
never been so disappointed in a*man in all my life as I am 
in you,” she added tempestously. 

“Why are you disappointed?” he asked dully. 

“Because I am a fool,” she cried. “Yes, a fool to have 
believed in you in spite of the evidence of my senses. I 
blinded myself to the obvious, and saw you through the 
eyes of romance. For I thought that it was love of Averill 
that brought you here and kept you here, and I was glad 
—romantic little idiot that I am!” 

“What reason had you for thinking that?” asked Stephen 
sharply, spurred from his torpor of despair by her unex¬ 
pected reference to Averill. 

“Because she told me how you had passed her on your 
way south and how rudely you stared at her, she returned. 
“She did not then know who you were, of course, but the 
next day she found out that, instead of proceeding on your 
journey, you had retraced your steps and taken up your 
abode at this inn. It will doubtless flatter you to learn that 
she was more than a little curious about you; and I have 
no doubt whatever that she secretly cherished the^same 
ridiculous notions concerning your motives that I did. 

The light of hope flickered uncertainly in Stephen’s eyes as 
he listened to her, and when she paused he cried eagerly: 
“You really think that, Miss Ravenscourt ?” 

“I do, Mr. Burgoyne,” she said coldly. “But you have 
already sinned past her forgiveness, and ’twill scarcely help 
matters when she hears that her supposed worshipper came 
here, not for her sake, but because he is the lover of the most 
notorious woman in the county.” 

“That is grossly unjust, madam—not only to me but to 
Lady Meltondene as well,” he protested hotly. “I-” 


204 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“To you it may be,” she interrupted, with a sceptical 
little smile. “To your mistress it certainly is not. I 
know Barbara Meltondene as well as, if not better than, 
you do, and I am in no doubt as to the correctness of my 
estimate of her. Ever since her marriage her love-affairs 
have been an open scandal; she has had a fresh lover for 
each month of the year. Averill will be disgusted when 
she learns that you are the latest—though I question whether 
she will be surprised!” 

“Miss Ravenscourt, I implore you not to mention this 
matter to her,” he begged. “Spare me that at least. Your 
conclusions are hopelessly, criminally wrong. Will you not 
accept my word of honor that, despite what you have seen, 
I have done nothing whatever to merit the accusation which 
you would make against me?” 

“No!” 

The curt monosyllable struck him like a blow. Never 
before had his word been doubted by anyone; the scornful 
unbelief which he read in Sylvia’s face hurt him as he had 
never been hurt. It was incredible to, him that either she 
or any other person could deem him capable of lying to 
save his face. He felt suddenly half stunned, and incapable 
of clear thought; and, forgetful of the fact that his guest 
was still standing, he sank listlessly into a chair and fixed 
brooding, miserable eyes on the firegrate. 

Sylvia noted his distress, and for a moment pity almost 
overcame her indignation. But she remembered his crimes 
and steeled her heart against him. 

“I shall certainly tell Averill what I have seen,” she said 
resolutely. 

“But why? What good purpose will it serve?” 
Irritation was now the dominant note in Stephen’s cry, 
for he felt that a malignant Fate was goading him beyond 
endurance. Anguish or despair might, perhaps, have won 
Sylvia over, but the mere hint of bad temper promptly 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 205 

alienated her dawning sympathy and rendered her resolution 
inflexible. 

“It will serve the purpose of presenting Mr. Burgoyne 
in his true colors,” she retorted disdainfully. “It will 
confirm Averill’s opinion as to the reason why he and his law¬ 
less companions deemed fit to try to abduct her.” 

Stephen started. “What do you mean?” he demanded 
roughly. 

“I mean that I know you to be the man who escaped 
from custody a week or so ago,” she replied calmly. “I 
recognized you the instant you entered Lady Alverford’s 
drawing-room. Averill was not so sure, but a glimpse of 
your wrists resolved her doubts.” 

“My wrists?” echoed Stephen, glancing down at them 
involuntarily. 

“Yes, your wrists. You doubtless remember that they 
had been lacerated by your bonds; and although the sleeves 
of your coat were long and you were careful to keep them 
well pulled down, an unwary gesture betrayed you. And 
that brings me at last to the reason for my call. You are 
in danger, Mr. Burgoyne.” 

He laughed suddenly and mirthlessly. “ ’Fore gad! 
madam, I seem to be in every kind of unpleasant predica¬ 
ment at one and the same time,” he cried bitterly. “In 
such a case, danger may rather be welcome than otherwise.” 

“I am glad my news pleases you, sir,” she said satirically. 
“Colonel Oldfield bids me tell you that Crisp suspects you, 
and that you are watched day and night. He advises you 
to leave the district without an instant’s delay, for he be¬ 
lieves you may be arrested at any moment.” 

“Colonel Oldfield sent you with that message to me!” 
Stephen was growing more and more bewildered. 

“Yes. He desired Averill to bring it, but she refused 
point-blank. So I—I now regret to say—volunteered for 
the service.” 

“But why should the Colonel be concerned for my safety?” 


206 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“The reason he gives is that he cannot credit that you 
are the wanted man. I suspect that the truth is that he 
admires your colossal effrontery in openly remaining near 
the scene of your crime, and daring to visit Lady Alverford 
on the very day of your escape. However that may be, 
the High Constable called upon him this morning to ask 
his advice. Crisp is fearful of the consequences of a mis¬ 
take, and hesitates to arrest you on suspicion. At first the 
Colonel, with a mistaken sense of sportsmanship, pooh- 
poohed the matter, but he quickly found that Crisp’s sus¬ 
picions were too strong to be lightly dismissed. So he 
advised him to hold his hand for a day or two, to which 
Crisp agreed. Then the Colonel, having consulted Averill 
and me, decided to warn you. At first he thought of 
sending Sergeant Ball, but this was not considered wise in 
view of the fact that you are watched, and that it might 
lead Crisp to think that you had been warned and to take 
precipitate action. On the other hand, he was unlikely 
to regard a formal and quite open call by a lady, even if 
she were a member of Colonel Oldfield’s household, as sus¬ 
picious ; and that is why I am here. And having delivered 
my message, Mr. Burgoyne, I will bid you good day.” 

She turned towards the door, but Stephen sprang to his 
feet and stood in her path. “One moment, please, Miss 
Ravenscourt,” he said hastily. “Permit me to ask another 
question. Is Colonel Oldfield as certain as you seem to 
be that I am the escaped prisoner?” 

“No. Like Crisp, his suspicions are strong, but he is 
not sure.” 

“And Lady Averill ?” 

“Averill is in no doubt whatever.” 

“And did I just now understand you to say she has ex¬ 
pressed an opinion as to my motive for the attempted crime 
of which you believe me guilty?” 

“She has.” 

“May I ask what that opinion is?” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


207 


Sylvia blushed vividly and averted her eyes. “She puts 
the worst possible construction on it,” she replied, in a low 
voice. 

“And do you agree with her, Miss Ravenscourt?” he 
asked, more anxiously than he knew. 

“At first I emphatically disagreed, but after what I have 
seen this afternoon I am reluctantly compelled to change my 
opinion.” 

“Thank you, Miss Ravenscourt, both for your kindness in 
bringing me the Colonel’s message and for the patience with 
which you have answered my questions. I am your debtor, 
and that I always pay my debts is one of my few virtues.” 
He turned and opened the door wide for her. “Some day 
I hope to prove to you that your estimate of me is wrong. 
That the task will be difficult appears probable; that I shall 
accomplish it is certain.” 

There was neither boastfulness nor bravado in the grave 
manner in which he spoke; and as Sylvia walked at his side 
down the old stone staircase and out through the low ceil- 
inged, wainscoted hall to where Colonel Oldfield’s carriage 
awaited her, she began to wonder if, after all, she had mis¬ 
judged him. 

Heedless of the steady downpour, she paused irresolute 
with one foot on the carriage step and regarded him stead¬ 
fastly, her sympathies warring with her intellect. Then, 
as though she had suddenly made up her mind, she swiftly 
took her seat in the vehicle, and the footman slammed the 
door. But even yet she was not satisfied, and, thrusting her 
pretty head through the open window, she said hurriedly: 

“Mr. Burgoyne, you have not yet told me your inten¬ 
tions. What reply am I to give to Colonel Oldfield ?” 

“Please convey to him my most grateful and sincere 
thanks for his courtesy and for the service which he has 
endeavored to render to a stranger. Tell him that I do not 
doubt that his advice to make myself scarce is sound, but 
that I regret that I am unable to take it. Come what may, 


208 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

here I am and here I shall remain until I have achieved my 
purpose.” 

“And what is your purpose, may I ask, sir?” asked Sylvia, 
her eyes twinkling for the first time. 

“It is to gain the respect and win the love of Lady Averill 
Stapleton,” he said evenly. 

“La! Methinks you have a mighty good opinion of your¬ 
self, Mr. Burgoyne,” she cried mockingly. “ ’Twill take 
a real man to achieve that.” 

“So I think, madam,” he said, as, bowing low, he signalled 
to the coachman to start his horses, and, turning abruptly, 
entered the inn. 


CHAPTER XIV 


RELATES HOW STEPHEN AND SIR RANDOLPH GORST FOUGHT 
FOR A PECULIAR PRIZE 

S PRING was always tardy in her coming to Greypool 
Wood. She invariably seemed loth to oust the decay of 
winter from its depths, and to touch to vivid, verdant life 
the gaunt branches of the trees which stood in tall and naked 
majesty on the edge of the wide-flung moor. Perhaps she 
stayed to gather courage ere she gave battle to the bitter, icy 
blasts from the north and east which swept at will across the 
open heath and relentlessly harried the defenceless and un¬ 
protected wood, or maybe she, in the selfishness of her youth, 
would not trouble to surmount the hill which forbade her 
playmates, the southerly and westerly breezes, to laugh and 
frolic in its glades. 

But when at last summer threatened to usurp her sway, 
then she awoke to her duty, and showered upon Greypool 
Wood the rarest treasures of her fragrant, fairy basket. 
She spread upon its floor a carpet of dainty bluebells so thick 
that it was scarcely possible to tread without crushing to pulp 
a dozen lovely, nodding, azure gems; she lavishly clothed 
in her most radiant hues of shimmering green the sombre, 
silent trees, and made them whisper ecstatically together of 
the wonder of her coming. Into every thicket and brake 
within its confines she sent the most accomplished of her 
feathered heralds to hymn her praise and to sing the palpitat¬ 
ing, age-old songs of matingtime and love; from the pool 
which gave to the wood its name she banished the grey 
sullenness, and made of it a mirror of laughing blue loveliness 
209 


210 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


which reflected the shy white of the daisies and the flashing 
gold of the buttercups with which she had powdered its 
banks. 

Averill adored Greypool Wood. It belonged to her 
uncle, and lay between the grounds of his house and the 
moor; but Averill regarded it as her very own, for it was 
seldom that any human being other than herself disturbed 
the tranquility of the timid wild things that made of it their 
home. In it she was wont to find an ever-changing beauty 
which was balm to her soul, and a peace which banished 
from her mind all the irksome little frets and worries of 
everyday life; to it she came for aid whenever she grappled 
with a problem which was more perplexing than usual. 

It was for the latter reason that she sought its solitude 
on this deliciously warm, sunny afternoon which followed 
two days of persistent, drizzling rain. The ground was 
still damp, but Averill recked naught of this; her little 
boots were stout and well chosen, and she herself did not be¬ 
long to the type of woman that fears either the vagaries 
of the weather or the warnings of that pessimistic school 
of elderly croakers which appears to believe that death lurks 
in every passing whim of wise old Dame Nature. The 
indescribable perfume of spring enveloped her like an in¬ 
visible, enchanted cloak before she had penetrated ten yards 
into the wood; and she stopped suddenly to gasp with delight 
as her eyes encountered the full beauty of the huge masses 
of vividly blue flowers which covered the ground. A large 
flat stone which lay close to the foot of a tree caught her 
wandering, wondering glance, and, almost unconscious of 
w'hat she did, she sat down upon it so that she might more 
comfortably drink in the loveliness of her surroundings. 

But very soon her thoughts returned again to the problem 
which had lately obsessed them. That problem was Stephen 
Burgoyne. Whilst she hated to admit it, her innate honesty 
compelled her to confess to herself that this man had en¬ 
chained her interest in a way that no other member of his 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


211 


sex had hitherto succeeded in doing. From the very first 
time she had seen him—that time when he had roused her 
ire by his unmannerly stare—she had known him for no 
ordinary man, and his actions since that time had served to 
confirm her estimate of him. His strange and inexplicable 
conduct had mystified her, and increased to uncomfortable 
proportions her curiosity regarding him, in addition to which 
his outspoken prophecy that he would turn her dislike of 
him into love, whilst it had made her intensely angry and 
haughtily indignant, had thrilled her with a fear that was 
at once delicious and apprehensive. 

Her first emotion when she discovered that he was one 
with the prisoner who had escaped from her uncle’s custody 
was pleasure that she had been kind to him; but this had 
quickly given place to a growing suspicion that his motive 
in attempting to abduct her was far from being an altruistic 
one. Her knowledge of the men who were the boon com¬ 
panions of “His Royal Highness” was thorough and com¬ 
prehensive, and she cherished no girlish delusions as to their 
knightly characteristics. The foppishly attired individual 
who boasted himself “Corinthian” was usually a libertine 
and sometimes a blackguard; too often his claim to the title 
of gentleman rested in his manners and not in his mode of 
living. To be in accord with the royal example he must 
stick at nothing in the pursuit of his amors; the virtue of a 
woman must be as thistledown in the scales which were 
weighted with his passions. The more notorious he became 
for the ruthlessness with which he bent his victims to his 
lustful will the more he deemed himself a fitting object 
for the adulation of his fellows; and there were not a few 
high-born and socially unassailable ladies—particularly such 
as possessed handsome daughters—who did not hesitate to 
close their doors to many of those who claimed the privilege 
of close friendship with the Prince. 

And of all the Prince’s friends none was more famous 
than Buck Burgoyne. Yet Averill, to whom his name had 


212 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


long been familiar, could not condemn him utterly on that 
fact alone. Prejudiced as she was against the Corinthian, 
justice compelled her to admit that, so far as she knew, the 
hot breath of scandal had left Stephen unscathed. She had 
heard him spoken of as a rider whose skill had won for him 
many coveted trophies; as a fine whip who had ofttimes 
driven the famous “Highflyer” coach; as a keen supporter 
of “The Fancy” who was as apt with his fists as were many 
of the professional fighters to whom he gave his patronage; 
but never as an amorist. The one solitary episode to his 
discredit in that direction was the scene wdth Lady Melton- 
dene of which Sylvia Ravenscourt had been an unwilling 
witness. 

But prone, like most of her sex in such cases, to judge 
harshly on the flimsiest evidence, this last had condemned 
him utterly in Averill’s eyes. She had been so certain in 
her own mind that it was for her sake he lingered in the 
district that she was piqued beyond measure to find that 
the charming magnet was apparently not herself, but a 
more beautiful and less fastidious woman whom she dis¬ 
liked intensely. Her chagrin was out of all proportion to 
her professed indifference to him; and with a pang of dis¬ 
may she at length realized that there was more than a little 
of jealousy in it. 

And even as the truth forced itself upon her she promptly 
began to deny it. She jealous? Absurd notion! The 
man w*as nothing, less than nothing, to her; how then 
could she be jealous? What possible attraction could one 
whose ambition in life was bounded by sport, fine clothes, 
and his own conceit—a conceit so overwhelming that it had 
led him to boast arrogantly to her that he would make her 
love him—have for her? He was obviously the epitome 
of everything which she scorned in men—the beau-ideal of 
those dissolute dandies who had so frequently come under 
the merciless lash of her scorn. 

The staccato crack of a snapping twig aw r oke her from 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


213 


her deep reverie, and she lifted her head sharply. Heavy 
footsteps, muffled but plainly audible, and the rustle of dis¬ 
turbed undergrowth, warned her that she was not alone 
in the wood. Somebody had entered it from the direction 
of the road, and was sauntering slowly down a path which 
led into another and larger glade which lay about ten yards 
away from the one in which she sat and which was plainly 
visible to her. 

This unwonted disturbance of her solitude both irritated 
and alarmed her. Such a thing had never before happened 
here. The wholesome veneration which the country folk 
had for private property forbade them to enter Greypool 
Wood without the permission of its owner, and Averill 
felt certain the trespasser must be a stranger—probably 
some tramp or itinerant poacher who hoped to ensnare a 
meal. It behoved her not to betray her presence to such 
a one; the place was lonely, and, although she had little 
money or jewellery about her person, she would be an easy 
prey to an unscrupulous vagabond, and one which he would 
be unlikely to neglect. 

Very quietly she abandoned her seat and took up a position 
behind a tree-trunk which ensured her not being seen, but 
from which, by cautious peeping, she could obtain a full 
view of the open space which the intruder was approaching. 
Presently the tall figure of a man, handsomely attired and 
swinging a long, tasselled cane, stepped out into the dappled 
sunlight, and Averill started with surprise, for she recognized, 
instantly Sir Randolph Gorst. She both disliked and des¬ 
pised him, but she also feared him, and in her fear was a 
great measure of the paralyzing fascination which the snake 
has for the rabbit which it is about to devour. 

But scarcely had Sir Randolph reached the centre of the 
glade than he stopped and, wheeling abruptly, stood gazing 
intently in the direction from which he had come. And 
at that same instant Averill became conscious that yet a 
third party had violated her sanctuary—someone who was 


214 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


evidently in a hurry, and whose rapid approach brought a 
frown of annoyance to Sir Randolph’s brow. 

A further surprise was in store for Averill, for almost at 
once the very man whose intriguing personality had caused 
her to come here burst into the clearing. He checked 
abruptly within a few paces of Sir Randolph and stood 
breathing rather heavily; and Averill, who thrilled with ex¬ 
citement as her instinct warned her that she was about to 
be the unseen witness of events rare to feminine eyes, ob¬ 
served that he carried a heavy whip, the long lash of which 
hung in loops from the hand which held it. She also 
noted that Gorst’s grip on the cane with which he was cas¬ 
ually beheading the nodding bluebells had become tense, 
although the scowl on his face had given place to a smile 
of easy nonchalance. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Burgoyne,” he greeted the new¬ 
comer coolly. “I had not thought to meet you in so pleas¬ 
ant a place. But you must forgive me if my unexpected 
presence here has delayed your journey, for you seemed 
to be in haste.” 

“My journey is ended. Sir Randolph,” returned Stephen 
grimly. “And methinks the place will seem less pleasant 
to you ere you leave it.” 

“Ah! Then your business is with me?” 

“It is.” 

“The business which compels the imperturbable Buck 
Burgoyne to run must be pressing indeed,” sneered Sir 
Randolph, as he idly decapitated another bluebell. 

Stephen’s lips were set in a hard, thin line, and they 
scarcely opened as he made reply. “ ’Tis pressing enough, 
as you will surely find. I saw you pass down the lane, and 
I returned to the inn for this whip, which accounts for my 
having had to run. I have come to thrash you, Sir 
Randolph.” 

The other laughed lightly. “You are a droll fellow, 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 215 

Burgoyne,” he said indulgently. “Gentlemen do not thrash 
one another with whips.” 

“No,” agreed Stephen. “Thrashings are the punish¬ 
ments which society metes out to malefactors, cads, and 
traitors.” 

Sir Randolph’s smile disappeared, and his eyes narrowed 
ominously. “You choose unpleasant words, sir,” he said. 

“I choose just ones,” retorted Stephen. “You may not 
be a malefactor, Sir Randolph, but you are cad and traitor 
froth.” 

“Have a care lest you go too far, Mr. Burgoyne,” cried 
Gorst warningly. “I shall require you to prove what you 
say.” 

Stephen laughed contemptuously. “You require proof? 
Well then, listen. You persuaded me against my better 
judgment to join you and Alverford in what you called a 
harmless and pleasant diversion. As a poetic revenge for 
Colonel Oldfield’s threats against Harry we were to hold up 
the Colonel’s coach and carry off his niece, who was to be 
safely lodged for the night and taken back to her home next 
morning.” 

“Is it necessary to recall all this?” Interposed Gorst im¬ 
patiently. 

“You asked for proof, and I am giving it to you,” replied 
Stephen calmly. “Instead of keeping your tryst with 
Alverford and me, you sent another in your stead whom 
you paid to assume your identity. Then you betrayed all 
three of us to the High Constable, and, to make doubly 
sure that our little comedy should become tragedy, you 
yourself took command of his men and arranged matters so 
that we should be caught in the very act of highway robbery 
and abduction. Are not those the actions of a cad and a 
traitor?” 

Sir Randolph’s face flamed, and his eyes blazed with hate 
as he made reply. 

“You damned simpleton!” he almost shouted. “Did you 


216 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


think me the magnanimous type of idiot who would assist 
a fool like Alverford to win the most desirable woman in 
all England? Had Alverford not invited you to join in the 
venture, Averill would now be mine, for I should have 
carried her off under his very nose; and she would have 
been glad enough to marry me ere we had reached Gretna, 
I warrant you! But your advent changed my plans. Your 
malign influence alone has kept me from the social position 
to which my birth entitles me. It was your cursed inter¬ 
ference that made Barbara Neville turn from me and refuse 
to become my wife. But she repaid you for that herself, 
didn’t she?” He laughed hoarsely. “She found the title 
of Lady Meltondene more alluring than that of Mrs. 
Burgoyne; she accepted the offer of the earl’s decadent nobil¬ 
ity in preference to that of your puling, prating love.” 

Averill could see the flush which mounted to Stephen’s 
cheeks; and the growing joy with which she had heard his 
accusation against Gorst gave place to bitter disappointment 
as she listened to the baronet’s exposure of the relations 
which had formerly existed between Stephen and Lady 
Meltondene. The one cleared him from all suspicion of 
an unworthy motive for his playing the part of highwayman; 
his only crime in this connection was folly. But the other, 
to Averill’s reasoning, confirmed his guilt in regard to Bar¬ 
bara Meltondene; it was obvious from Sir Randolph’s speech 
that a love-affair had been in progress between them even 
before her marriage. Averill went crimson with shame as 
the awful thought flashed across her mind that perhaps that 
marriage had not interrupted it. But she had no time 
to pursue her thought, for Gorst was still speaking. 

“You earned my bitter hatred, Burgoyne, and long ago 
I vowed that some day I would cry you quits,” he said. “So 
when Alverford urged you to join us, I raised my voice in 
his support, for I saw at once how neatly I might entrap 
you. It was no traitorous instinct that guided me; it was 
the instinct that claims an eye for an eye. No man rides 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


217 


roughshod over Randolph Gorst with impunity. And 
there you have it.” 

“And what of Alverford and the man who took your 
place?” drawled Stephen. “Had they also earned your hate? 
Or were they unworthy of your consideration?” 

“Bah!” Gorst sneered contemptuously. “The one 
sought Averill’s hand and was therefore my rival, and I 
at least did her a service in ridding her for good and all of 
such a pitiable suitor. All’s fair in love and war, remem¬ 
ber. The other was a hireling whom I had paid handsomely 
for the risks he took; why should I stop to consider him?” 

“Your ethics are worthy of you,” commented Stephen, in 
cutting tones. “But we waste time. I did not come here 
to argue with you; I came to thrash you as I promised, and 
thrash you I will.” 

Without hesitation Sir Randolph tossed his cane aside, and 
a bland smile banished all other expressions from his face. 
“I fancy the task is beyond you, Mr. Burgoyne,” he said 
easily. “I presume that you have no objection to my re¬ 
moving my coat and cravat to facilitate the matter.” 

“None whatever,” said Stephen politely. “On the con¬ 
trary, the lash will find your flesh more easily so. And that 
my arm may be freer to mete out chastisement, I will follow 
your example.” 

He placed the whip on the ground at his feet, and with 
a wary eye on Gorst, he rapidly divested himself of sundry 
garments; then, picking up his whip again, he stood waiting 
whilst Sir Randolph carefully made a little pile of the 
clothes he had discarded. 

Suddenly the baronet turned to him and said savagely: 

“I have given you rope enough, Burgoyne. Your brag¬ 
gadocio becomes you well, but I am weary of it, and ’tis ill 
playing to an unappreciative audience. So let us hear no 
more of thrashings, lest the threat recoil upon you. Do 
you imagine that I am going to stand here submissive whilst 
you wield a whip?” 


218 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Not for one moment.” Stephen walked across the 
glade and hung the whip on the branch of a tree; then he 
returned to his former position opposite Gorst. “But 
nevertheless I shall thrash you as you deserve, Sir Randolph. 
You see where the whip hangs? When I have beaten you 
into submission with my fists I shall use it on you with all 
the strength that remains to me.” 

“A pretty boast, but a double-edged one,” retorted Gorst, 
with a laugh. “Suppose you fail in your laudable pugilistic 
ambition; what then?” 

“That is for you to say, Sir Randolph,” replied Stephen 
coolly. 

“Good. Then this is what I say. I have seen you 
fight more than once, and I know that I can beat you. 
And when I have knocked you out and you lie helpless on 
the ground, I shall take that whip, and, by God! I’ll flay 
you with it. You may expect no mercy from me; I shall 
not rest until your clothes are naught but bloody tatters.” 

Stephen smiled. “I am content, Gorst,” he said. “The 
whip shall be the prize.” 

Without another word Sir Randolph launched a savage 
blow at Stephen’s head, but the latter was alert and avoided 
it easily. Then Stephen, feinting with his left, landed 
heavily in his opponent’s ribs. The blow was well timed, 
and it made Gorst catch his breath and retreat a pace. 
Stephen, balancing lightly on his toes, followed him—to 
be met by a jab in the mouth which sent his head back 
with a nasty jolt. 

It did not take many seconds for Stephen to discover 
that Gorst was no novice at this game of fistcuffs; indeed, 
he showed marked skill, and a speed which was astound¬ 
ing in a man of his bulk. In addition, he had a considerable 
advantage in weight; and Stephen quickly realized that he 
would need all his resources and stamina to make good his 
boast that he would thrash the baronet ere he left the field. 

Averill, watching the scene with fascinated eyes, was the 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


219 


prey of rapidly changing emotion. Horror and disgust 
that men could exhibit passions so primitive gave place to 
indignation that they gave no thought whatever to the havoc 
they were creating among the wild flowers. They were 
destroying the beauty of her wood, and she hated them for 
it. Indignation was in turn banished by fear—fear that 
Stephen must inevitably fall beneath the swift rain of blows 
which Sir Randolph showered upon him. But as the 
minutes passed and he still stood, upright and grim, upon his 
feet, her fears were forgotten in excitement; and her heart 
leapt with exultation as a straight left brought a stream of 
blood pouring from Gorst’s nostrils. 

Both men were breathing heavily, but neither of them 
showed any sign of approaching defeat. Back and forth 
they tramped all over the glade, giving and taking blows 
in a manner which advertised, even to Averill, their marked 
skill. Each attacked and retreated in turn, and when at 
last they were compelled to pause for breath the ground on 
■which they fought had become a sticky mass of pale green 
pulp. 

The pause was of short duration. A 9 though at the 
bidding of a timekeeper, they w'ent forward to each other 
with upraised fists, and the dull thud of blows and the quick 
tread of feet disturbed again the peace of the waning after¬ 
noon. 

Suddenly Stephen, side-stepping to avoid a terrific right, 
slipped on the trodden herbage. He made a desperate effort 
to recover his balance, but the treacherous surface gave him 
no help, and he measured his length on the ground. With¬ 
out hesitation, Gorst hurled himself upon his prostrate foe. 
The full weight of his body crashed down upon Stephen like 
an avalanche, well-nigh winding him, and making him gasp 
for breath. He struggled frantically to rid himself of 
Gorst’s bulk, for he knew that he could expect no mercy 
from the baronet; but, try as he would, he could not throw 
off the pressure of the knee that was thrust into the pit of 


220 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


his stomach nor loosen the hold of the massive, muscular arms 
that bound his own arms to his sides. True, the hold kept 
shifting slightly, but Stephen knew that it was no effort of 
his that accomplished this. He was already aware that he 
was no match for Sir Randolph in a rough-and-tumble, and 
he understood only too well that Gorst was slowly and 
surely working himself into a position which would enable 
him to hold his opponent with one arm whilst he battered 
the unprotected face below him with his free hand. 

After what seemed an eternity to Averill, watching now 
with eyes that were horror-filled, a triumphant smile slowly 
dawned on the blood-smeared face of the baronet. Averill 
saw him lift his right fist to strike, but before the blow fell 
she buried her face in her hands that she might not witness 
it. 

Gone were all her dark suspicions, her distrust, her 
jealous anger, her resentment against Stephen; her very 
soul cried out in agony at his defeat. Her lips were silent, 
but it was only with an intense effort that she kept them 
so. It seemed to her that her knight, her champion, lay 
in the dust for her sake, and yet she was helpless to lend 
him succor. How she had arrived at this conclusion even 
she could not have explained; it was her feminine sixth 
sense, her instinct, which told her that she and she alone 
had caused these two men to" discard the veneer of civiliza¬ 
tion and to fight as their ancestors of thousands of years 
ago had fought. 

But the blow which Averill feared to witness was never 
struck. Gorst miscalculated his hold by the merest frac¬ 
tion, and Stephen, alert with the alertness of desperation, 
seized his heaven-sent opportunity. With a slight wriggle 
and a terrific heave he flung his assailant from him and 
sprang to his feet. 

A snarl of mortified rage issued from Sir Randolph’s lips. 
Victory had escaped him at the very instant when he thought 
he had it safe in his grasp. But, despite his dis- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


221 


appointment, his agility equalled that of Stephen, and 
he regained his feet almost simultaneously with his 
opponent. And if he had ever feared the issue he feared 
it no longer. His antagonist might be his equal as a boxer, 
but he was most certainly his inferior in strength. Could 
he once again contrive to get at grips with him, Stephen’s 
chances would not be worth a minute’s purchase. 

With this end in view, he concentrated all his efforts 
upon getting Stephen into a clinch. His blows became 
much less frequent, yet by sheer weight he forced his oppon¬ 
ent into constant retreat. But each time he attempted 
to entrap between his arm and side one of those flying fists 
he found himself just too late; each time he tried to clasp 
Stephen’s lithe body in his arms the embrace was cleverly 
eluded. Time and again, by vigorous use of foot and leg, 
he endeavored to trip his opponent, but it was all to no 
purpose; full well did Stephen know that another fall 
would be fatal, and that he must at all costs keep his feet 
and his freedom of movement. 

This constant frustration of his efforts at length began 
to have its effect upon Sir Randolph’s temper. And as 
his temper waxed his cautiousness waned. His attack be¬ 
came more ferocious, but his defence became less certain, 
and twice within as many seconds he escaped, only by good 
fortune, blows aimed at the point of his jaw. He had 
conceived the idea of driving Stephen out of the glade so 
that his movements would be restricted by the trees and 
the undergrowth. 

The light of triumph gleamed in his eyes as a quick 
backward step brought Stephen into sharp contact with 
the trunk of a tree. The force of the impact caused him 
to stumble forward on to one knee; and for the second time 
Gorst hurled himself at him. 

But this time he did not achieve his purpose. A vicious 
short arm jab caught him full and fair in the stomach just 


222 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


above the belt, and with a groan of agony he crashed writh¬ 
ing to the ground. 

For a moment or two Stephen stood in silent contempla¬ 
tion of his fallen enemy; then, without a word, he turned 
and strode across to where the whip hung ready. His 
grim purpose was written in his relentless face, and Averill 
shuddered as she saw him seize the whip and fling out the 
long lash in a resounding crack. 

The staccato sound made Sir Randolph cease for a 
moment his moaning. He turned apprehensive eyes in 
the direction from whence it came, and what he saw 
caused him to make a desperate and prolonged effort to rise 
to his feet. But the blow which had prostrated him had 
been a shrewd one, delivered with all the scientific force of 
one who knew exactly where to plant it, and he sank down 
again to the ground. 

“Good God, Burgoyne!” he gasped. “You surely don’t 
mean to carry out your threat?” 

His answer was the soft whine of the lash as it came 
swift through the still air and cut him clean across the flank. 
A stifled cry of pain issued from his lips, and again he 
struggled frantically to stand upright, but before his tor¬ 
tured body had answered fully the command of his brain 
that pitiless lash bit deep into his thinly-clad shoulders. 

Only by exerting to the utmost his iron will did Gorst 
prevent himself from screaming. His pride forbade him 
to scream, yet he knew that did the lash fall a third time 
neither pride nor will would avail him. And fall a third 
time it did—this time round the calves of his legs. But 
he did not scream; he fainted. 

Yet even this did not deter Stephen. With cold eyes 
fixed on the unconscious man, he lifted again above his head 
the hand which held the whip. But before he could strike, 
a voice spoke from behind him—a voice low and tense, but 
vibrant with passion. 

“Are you mad, Mr. Burgoyne?” it said. “Or are you 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 223 

coward? One of the two you must be to treat any man 
so.” 

His arm fell to his side, and he turned to face Averill, 
whose blazing eyes and quivering lips indicated the measure 
of her indignation. But in his demeanor there was no 
sign of shame or penitence, and his surprise at her advent 
failed to soften in the smallest degree the grim expression 
of his face. 

“I trust I am neither, madam,” he said coldly. “You 
were present when I made my vow to thrash Gorst, and 
I think, if your memory be good, you will agree that I had 
good cause to make it. I do but keep my word, madam; 
that is all.” 

“You have already kept it, Mr. Burgoyne, so let that 
content you,” she returned vigorously. “Has your rage 
so blinded you that you cannot see that you have thrashed 
Sir Randolph into unconsciousness?” 

“My eyes serve me equally as well as do yours, madam,” 
he replied evenly. “But, though I regret to say it, I brook 
no interference in the carrying out of my promises to the 
very letter, not even from you. Gorst’s thrashing has but 
begun, not ended.” 

Incredulous, horrified eyes looked into his for a moment; 
then Averill stepped resolutely between Stephen and his 
victim and drew herself up to her full height. 

“Am I really to believe that you intend to whip one who 
can neither feel, see, nor speak?” she asked, with imperious 
scorn. 

“You are, madam.” 

“Then I say that you shall not touch him,” she cried 
resolutely. “You barbarian! Unscrupulous as I know you 
to be, I couldn’t have credited you with such savagery had 
I not myself been a witness of it.” 

“Stand aside, madam.” The order was curt and cold, 
and instinctively Averill understood that naught she could 
do would turn this unbending man from his purpose. Yet, 


224 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


useless though she now knew it to be, she felt compelled 
to exert herself to the utmost to stay his hand. 

“I shall not stand aside,” she declared firmly, but with 
quivering lips. “Are you entirely merciless, Mr. Burgoyne?” 

“In this case, yes,” he answered. “Mercy is not for 
such as he.” 

“Mercy should be for all,” she said swiftly. “Yes, even 
for you.” 

A grim smile played about his mouth. “You flatter 
me, Lady Averill,” he said, “but you do not convince me.” 

Then suddenly she changed her tactics. Tears suffused 
her glorious eyes, and through them she sent a glance of 
appeal which would have softened a heart of stone. It 
made Stephen quiver with longing to take her in his arms 
and to banish her tears with his ardent lips. 

“Mr. Burgoyne, I beg of you to spare him further punish¬ 
ment,” she implored brokenly. “I pray you not to forget 
your manhood-” 

“Of what concern is my manhood to you ?” he interposed, 
harshly and abruptly. 

She hesitated, and the bright blood flooded her cheeks. “I 
—I would rather not answer that question,” she said slowly, 
obviously choosing her words. “But I ask this of you for 
my sake, Mr. Burgoyne.” 

A wonderful light transfigured Stephen’s face, and he 
fixed upon Averill an intent look which, despite her every 
effort, she found it impossible to sustain. And then the 
light faded from his eyes, and his mouth became close¬ 
lipped and stern. 

“For your sake, I think you said, madam.” He spoke 
the words with an infinity of meaning. “Your sex has a 
partiality for that expression, methinks. May I ask if, in 
this instance, it has any significance?” 

She flushed again, for she did not fail to gather his mean¬ 
ing. He was accusing her of insincerity, of cheating, and 
she knew that she was guilty. 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


225 


“It may have much significance or none, sir,” she retorted, 
with a brave attempt at coquettishness which was entirely 
unconvincing. 

His lip curled. “It has usually none, I find,” he said. 
“So stand aside.” 

‘“I shall not,” she cried, chagrined and angry. 

He did not speak again. Instead, he thrust out his left 
arm and gently but firmly swept her to one side. Then 
thrice did his whip send out its hungry lash to find Sir 
Randolph’s arm, hip, and face. 

But only one long-drawn moan issued from the baronet’s 
lips; and suddenly Stephen turned and flung the whip far 
from him into the depths of the wood. Totally ignoring 
Averill, who had run to the side of his unconscious enemy, 
he walked to the pool which lay peaceful and unruffled in 
an adjoining glade and carefully bathed his bruised hands 
and face. This accomplished, he returned and began to don 
the garments which he had previously discarded. His 
inscrutable eyes saw Averill take Sir Randolph’s hat to the 
pool and return with it dripping water. He noted the un¬ 
ceasing efforts which she made to restore the baronet to 
consciousness; and once he shivered as though an icy wind 
had blown upon his spine. 

At length he picked up his hat and stood ready to depart. 
He paused for a moment irresolute; then he walked to 
Averill’s side and stood looking down at her. 

“You are foolish, madam,” he said at last. “You were 
better employed in nursing back to life a venomous reptile 
than Sir Randolph Gorst.” 

But neither by word nor glance did she betray conscious¬ 
ness of his presence, and with a shrug of his shoulders he 
turned on his heel and left the glade. 


CHAPTER XV 


PLACES STEPHEN IN A SORRY DILEMMA 

E XCITEMENT reigned in Bolderburn. Scarce half 
an hour had passed since the Deputy Parish Constable, 
puffed up with dignity and importance and carrying himself 
with an ostentatious solemnity befitting an occasion unique in 
the history of the village, had nailed the notice by it four 
corners to one of the heavy gateposts which flanked the en¬ 
trance to the Nag’s Head stable yard; yet already the news 
had spread like wildfire in every direction, and it was sur¬ 
prising how many members of a community whose hours of 
daylight w r ere usually very fully occupied found it possible to 
repair at once to the point from whence the thrilling news 
emanated. Even the busy blacksmith had left forge and 
bellows to take care of themselves whilst he went to verify 
the startling information which a customer of his had given 
him. 

Not everyone who stared with eyes of wonderment at 
the official-looking piece of parchment could read it, but that 
did not in the least detract from its fascination. In the 
little group of ten or a dozen men which stood around it 
there was one who was only too pleased to display his learn¬ 
ing for the benefit of his fellows. It exalted him for the 
moment to a position of importance which was none the 
less sweet because it was transitory; such an opportunity 
seldom came his way, and he was quite prepared to read 
the notice as often as anyone cared to listen. 

The notice, as became so unique a document, was un¬ 
usually lengthy and couched in the authoritative terms of 
226 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


227 


officialdom. It was signed at the foot by Crisp, the High 
Constable; and the flourish which he had contrived to give 
to his signature unmistakably proclaimed to the world at 
large the pleasure which it had given him to place it there. 

The first words, printed in large letters, were: 

A PROCLAMATION. 

£100 REWARD. 

Then followed a pompously worded statement to the 
effect that this sum would be paid to anyone giving informa¬ 
tion which would lead to the rearrest of the two miscreants 
who had recently escaped after being taken red-handed in 
the act of robbery under arms on the Kings highway within 
the hundred of Darnchester and in the vicinity of Bolder- 
burn. A full but rather indefinite description of the crim¬ 
inals was given; but perhaps the most significant paragraph 
of all was the last. 

It announced that whilst the authorities hoped for the 
recapture of both men that of the man first described was 
the more ardently desired; this was he who was said to 
have been wearing a blue coat. He it was who was re¬ 
garded as the ringleader in the affair—in addition to which 
it was suspected that he was the author of many other out¬ 
rages which had taken place both in this district and else¬ 
where. In the event of his being taken alone the informer 
would receive £75; if his fellow only were rearrested, then 
the reward would be but £25. 

“That’s a rum ’un, that is,” commented a burly farmer 
who had listened carefully whilst a thin, wizened man with 
horn spectacles on his nose had slowly read out the notice. 
“Are you sure as you got that last bit right, Mr. Pickup?” 

“Perfectly sure, sir, perfectly sure,” snapped the thin man, 
offended that his accuracy should be questioned. “I’ll read 
it again if you wish, but-” 

“No need for that,” said the farmer impatiently. “I’ll 
tak’ your word for it. But I should ha’ thought as when 



228 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


two chaps was catched committin’ th’ same crime, th’ reward 
should be equal for both on ’em.” 

“You forget that one is suspected of other crimes as well 
as this one, Mr. Merryweather,” said Mr. Pickup, with a 
tolerant smile of superiority. 

“I forget nowt, Mr. Pickup!” retorted the farmer rudely. 
“I mayn’t be what you’d call a scholar, but I’m none a num¬ 
skull, dammit! Who’s to say as t’other one isn’t th’ chap 
as they ought to suspect?” 

The logic of this question appealed to the bystanders, and 
there was a murmur of approval. 

“It strikes me as there’s some’at funny about it,” said a 
rotund, apple-cheeked little man whose bright eyes bespoke 
his shrewdness. “Either that, or it’s more o’ Crisp’s bun¬ 
gling. That there feller never did nowt yet in a way that 
’ud appeal to sensible folk. He thinks he’s a clever ’un, 
but I reckon he’s a fool, if you ask me.” 

“Aye, there’s some’at i’ what you say, Willyum,” agreed 
the farmer. “I doubt they’re a daft lot i’ Darnchester, any¬ 
way.” 

“Come, come, Mr. Merryweather, I think you and 
Edmonds are judging the matter rather hastily,” said Mr. 
Pickup reprovingly. “For my own part I think the High 
Constable is right. Has it occurred to anyone here that 
we have lately had in our midst one of whom we know 
little or nothing beyond what he himself has told us?” 

“Who d’ye mean?” asked Merryweather sharply, with 
a frowning glance at the speaker. 

“I know who he means,” interposed a rat-faced fellow. 
“He means th’ chap as calls hisself Mr. Burgoyne, or I’m 
a Dutchman.” 

“Dutchman or no, you’re a damn fool, Enoch Raikes,” 
cried the farmer angrily. “Aye, and so are you, Pickup. 
You’ve no right to put suspicions as there’s no call for into 
folk’s heads. You know as well as I do that Mr. Burgoyne 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


229 


is an old friend of his lordship’s, and I’m none asking no 
better credentials nor that.” 

“Tut, tut, Mr. Merryweather, you go too fast,” said Mr. 
Pickup, taking off his glasses and polishing them with a 
large silk handkerchief. “How do you know that Lord 
Alverford’s friendship with Mr. Burgoyne is an old one?” 

“ ’Cos his lordship told me so,” snapped Merryweather. 
“That’s good enough for me, and for you, too.” 

“I am not so sure of that,” objected Mr. Pickup. “Lord 
Alverford’s manner is at times—ah—a little—ah—simple, 
and maybe he spoke loosely. In any case, the description 
given seems to me to fjt Mr. Burgoyne very closely.” He 
turned, and saw the blacksmith at his elbow. “Ah, Thistle- 
ton, if I remember rightly you were the first man in Bolder- 
burn to encounter Mr. Burgoyne. Do you recollect the 
color of the coat he was wearing when he visited your 
smithy that day?” 

“Aye. It were a blue ’un.” The blacksmith spoke with 
obvious reluctance. “But I wouldn’t set too much store 
by that if I was you, Mr. Pickup.” 

“Why not, sir, why not?” 

“Becos’ I see’d you i’ a blue coat yourself yesterday,” 
retorted the smith drily. “It weren’t what you’d call a 
smart ’un nor yet a handsome ’un, but it were a blue ’un 
right enough.” 

A roar of laughter greeted Thistleton’s sally, but the 
scandal-loving Mr. Pickup was not to be turned from his 
theory by ridicule. A retired notary’s clerk, who, by the 
death of a distant relative, had become possessed of a com¬ 
fortable income, he occupied his time in advertising the faults 
and foibles of his fellows. He battened on scandal like a 
maggot on flesh decomposing; he gloated over the sins and 
weaknesses of others as an idol might gloat over bloody sacri¬ 
fice. In short, he was that most contemptible of all God’s 
creatures—a male gossip. 

“You forget yourself, Thistleton,” he said, with a hauteur 


230 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


which accorded ill with his appearance. “And you do 
the fellow no service by attempting to laugh away the sus¬ 
picion with which all thinking men must now regard him. 
I am fully aware that you are not likely to take pleasure in 
the thought that Burgoyne may be a criminal, for he has, 
by administering to your base craving for drink, attained 
no small degree of popularity with some of you. But 
facts are stubborn things, gentlemen, and I certainly-” 

“Shut your mouth, Pickup,” interrupted Merryweather 
bluntly. “This isn’t a temperance meeting, and we don’t 
want no speeches from you. Let me tell you that I, for 
one, ’ll believe nowt again’ Mr. Burgoyne till it’s proved.” 

“Nor me,” came in chorus from most of the group. 

“I’m wi’ Mr. Pickup,” declared the rat-faced Enoch 
Raikes vehemently. “Burgoyne’s a bully. Knocked me 
down, ’e did—wi’out warning, too.” 

“Aye, and serve you right,” said Thistleton emphatically. 
“You’ll happen not be quite so handy i’ th’ future at trying 
to be over free wi’ young lasses as hasn’t got any parents. 
You can close your trap, Enoch, my lad. There isn’t 
anybody i’ Bolderburn as is like to take your word again’ 
Mr. Burgoyne’s.” 

“I trust you are right, Jim. But I pray you tell me of 
what the gallant Mr. Raikes accuses me.” 

The voice came from outside the group, and an em¬ 
barrassed silence fell upon the disputants. So engrossed 
had they been that they one and all had failed to observe 
Stephen’s approach; and as they now slowly turned their 
flushed faces towards him every man there wondered how 
long he had been close at hand and how much he had heard. 

“Come, Jim, you are slow to speech, methinks,” said 
Stephen, in accents of gentle raillery. “Perhaps Raikes 
will speak for himself.” He turned to the rat-faced man 
with a smile. “What is the point at issue, Enoch?” 

“It’s nowt, nowt at all,” replied Raikes hastily, fear 
in every line of him. “We was havin’ a bit of a hargyment 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 231 

about a coat o’ yours. Mr. Pickup said as it were a blue 
’un.” 

“Well?” 

Raikes licked his dry lips, and sought for further words. 
Stephen’s appearance was not reassuring to his craven soul. 
The ominously smiling face above him was livid with bruises, 
and dried blood showed plain in the nostrils. There were 
green stains and patches of mud on Stephen’s usually im¬ 
maculate breeches, whilst the knuckles of the hand with 
which he idly fingered his cravat were broken and bleeding. 

Nor was Raikes the only one to observe these facts. 
Every member of the group was exercising his brain to 
account for them, yet not one dared to put a question. 
It was patent to all that Mr. Burgoyne had come straight 
from a combat which had been stark and dire, and they 
quivered with eagerness to know whether he came as victor 
or as vanquished. 

“I am waiting, Raikes.” The tones were curt this time, 
and Raikes’s furtive eyes became almost despairing. 

“I—I didn’t mean no harm, sir,” he said desperately. 
“And it wasn’t really me as said aught again’ you. It were 
Mr. Pickup here. Ax him; he’ll tell you, sir.” 

Stephen’s lips curled contemptuously. “I see,” he said. 
He fixed the notary’s clerk with cold eyes. “Proceed, 
Mr. Pickup.” 

Like most men who usurp the unenviable prerogative of 
women and become scandal-mongers, Mr. Pickup was an 
abject coward; but he was crafty and cunning, and his legal 
experience had conduced to quickness of wit. He answered 
Stephen’s question promptly enough, but he averted his eyes 
lest the apprehension which gleamed in them should be 
noted. 

“Enoch is unjust, Mr. Burgoyne,” he said deprecatingly. 
“We had been reading the proclamation here and were 
idly conjecturing as to whom the descriptions given might 
fit. Your name cropped up among others; that was all. 


232 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Have you read the proclamation, sir ?” He asked the 
question suddenly, and eyed the other’s face askance as he 
did so. 

“No.” 

Stephen moved a step or two nearer to the gate-post. 
Every man present watched him narrowly as he read the 
document through from beginning to end, but if any of 
them expected him to betray himself they were certainly 
disappointed. Not a muscle of his face altered as he stood 
in the centre of the silent, observant group. His air was 
that of simple curiosity; yet it was far from according with 
the dismay which the written words caused him. 

The significance of the document was instantly patent to 
him. Although the High Constable’s signature was at its 
foot, he was most certainly not its author. The amount of 
the reward proposed proved that beyond a doubt. The ut¬ 
most that could be earned by Mr. Crisp himself for the ap¬ 
prehension of a highwayman was £40 from the Sheriff and 
£10 from the hundred in which the robbery had taken place; 
how then could he afford to offer £75 for the taking of a 
single criminal when he was dependent upon the emoluments 
of his office for his livelihood ? 

Vindictive hate, and that alone, was responsible for the 
zeal which Mr. Crisp was ostensibly showing, but it was 
not his own hate. It was the hate of Sir Randolph Gorst. 
It was the malignance of a man who thought he saw his 
enemy within his toils, and who spared naught to make 
those toils doubly secure. 

And as Stephen stood with his eyes on the portentous 
parchment it seemed to him that Gorst was like to achieve 
his object—or, rather, one of two objects. 

Stephen was in a desperate situation. Either he must 
flee, and that at once, thus leaving Sir Randolph a clear field 
to work his will with Lady Averill Stapleton, or he must 
remain in Bolderburn and sooner or later be arrested for 
a crime which might bring him to the gallows. A pretty 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 233 

predicament, forsooth! It savored rather of some ridiculous 
play than of real life. Yet it was real enough in all con¬ 
science! He must either sacrifice his love or risk his neck, 
and he liked the choice but little. 

“Well, what think you of it, Mr. Burgoyne?” asked 
Mr. Pickup with some timidity, after an appreciable wait. 

Stephen turned his eyes to those of his questioner, who 
found the steady gaze hard to sustain. 

“ ’Tis surely plain enough,” he replied indifferently. 
“There is a reward to be earned by some zealous citizen, 
Mr. Pickup—a handsome reward which would scarce come 
amiss even to one in such comfortable circumstances as 
you, eh?” 

Mr. Pickup forced a laugh. “I shouldn't complain if 
it came my way,” he said, with uneasy flippancy. 

“That much is evident in that you have already set your 
brain to work on the problem! I should counsel haste, 
Mr. Pickup, for ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ you know, and 
you can scarce expect me to await your convenience in the 
matter.” 

The bantering tones in which this advice was given 
brought a flush to Mr. Pickup’s wizened face, and raised 
a laugh at his expense which obviously annoyed him. 

“Your conclusion is erroneous, sir,” he began stiffly. 

_ >> 

“You must excuse me, Mr. Pickup,” interrupted Stephen, 
silencirig him with a gesture. “I regret that I lack both 
the time and the inclination for further discussion.” 

With a cheery nod to the bystanders, he hurried away 
and entered the inn, leaving the abashed gossip and his 
solitary supporter to withstand a fusillade of ridicule and 
chaff. 

Yet had those he left behind him known of the torment 
of mind which possessed him, Mr. Pickup would have 
tasted the sweets of triumph instead of the bitters of irony. 

The inn was apparently deserted as Stephen entered it; 



234 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


but as he crossed the hall he heard his name spoken quietly, 
and, looking to his left, he saw the tall figure of Sergeant 
Ball standing in the doorway of a little-used room at the 
rear of the bar-parlor. To his surprise the Sergeant, after 
beckoning to him, placed his finger on his lips with the 
obvious intention of checking the greeting which Stephen 
was about to give him. 

“Might I have a word with you in here, sir?” he asked, in 
an undertone. 

Without quibble, the mystified Stephen walked through 
the door which the Sergeant held wide for him. And, a 
moment later, he was further mystified to find himself 
gazing into the face of Jerry Dodd, who sat at a table with 
a pint mug at his elbow and a long clay pipe in his hand. 

“Jerry and me is old comrades, you’ll understand, Mr. 
Burgoyne,” volunteered the Sergeant, as he carefully closed 
the door. “Served in my company just afore I left the ser¬ 
vice—did Jerry; and being as we are both carrying the same 
sort o’ dispatches, there ain’t no harm in us handing ’em 
over together, is there now?” 

Stephen glanced from one to the other of the two men 
in perplexity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sergeant,” 
he said rather wearily. “Do you bring me a message or 
something?” 

“Yes,” said Jerry, quicker than the Sergeant to note 
Stephen’s physical condition. “You have seen that proclama¬ 
tion, I suppose?” 

“I have,” replied Stephen, with a mirthless laugh. 

“Well, I got here an hour before it was posted, and have 
been waiting for you since then. The Sergeant came a few 
minutes later, and we soon found out that we were here 
on the same errand. And we thought it better to let as 
few people as possible know that we had sought you, lest 
we should precipitate matters.” 

“Well?” 

“The matter is urgent, Mr. Burgoyne. He who sent 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 235 


me”—he paused and shot a meaning glance at Stephen— 
“he who sent me bade me warn you that, unless you make 
yourself scarce, you will be arrested ere nightfall. By this 
time Crisp and his men will have left Darnchester for that 
purpose. You must get to horse at once, Mr. Burgoyne; 
an hour hence it may be too late.” 

“That’s right, sir,” said the Sergeant earnestly. “Retreat’s 
the word, sir; retreat, and lie low, and the enemy’s con¬ 
founded. Them’s Miss Averill’s commands, sir.” 

“Did Lady Averill send you, Sergeant?” queried Stephen, 
in quick astonishment. 

“That she did, sir. The Colonel said as ’ow he’d warned 
you once and you didn’t take no notice, so he wasn’t going 
to do it again. He called you a fool—beggin’ your pardon, 
sir. So Miss Averill orders me to seek you at once, but 
she wouldn’t let me take a horse for fear of arousing sus¬ 
picion. She said I was just to drop in here casual-like for 
a drink. You were out when I got here, but nobody knew 
where you’d gone, and I thought it better to wait for fear 
I missed you, sir.” 

“How long is it since you left Lady Averill?” 

“I should say about an hour and a half,” said the Ser¬ 
geant. “She walked with me some o’ the way until I turned 
off to take the short cut over the fields. It’s a long way 
for a chap with a game leg, sir.” 

Stephen stood silent, leaning on the mantelpiece. It 
was evident that Averill had gone straight to Greypool 
Wood after leaving the Sergeant. Yet, after the fight 
which she had witnessed was over, she had not deigned to • 
breathe a word to him of the imminent danger in which he 
stood. Evidently his conduct had again alienated her sym¬ 
pathies—sympathies which had been aroused somewhat un¬ 
accountably; and he smiled bitterly as he thought of the 
joyous hope that would have been his had the Sergeant’s 
message been delivered to him before instead of after his 
combat with Sir Randolph Gorst. 


236 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


And his bitterness made him reckless of what might befall 
him. He had vowed to stay here until he had won Averiil, 
and stay here he would, despite everybody and everything. 

“Please convey my thanks to Lady Averiil for her solici¬ 
tude on my behalf,” he said somewhat stiffly to the Sergeant. 
“But tell her I regret that I am unable to fall in with her 
suggestion. The time is not yet ripe for my departure, 
and whatever may befall, here I must remain for the 
present.” 

“But—begging your pardon, sir—this is foolish,” pro¬ 
tested the Sergeant. “There’s no mistake. The Colonel 
got word about it this very afternoon from Mr. Crisp him¬ 
self.” 

“That’s correct, Mr. Burgoyne,” said Jerry quietly. 
“And I was told to say that if you are taken only a miracle 
can save you from the rope. Think well before you decide 
to risk it. Remember that my warning comes from one 
who isn’t easily alarmed.” 

“I know, I know.” Stephen drew his hand wearily 
across his brow. “I realize my situation very fully. But 
my mind is made up, and nothing you can say or do can 
alter it. Nevertheless, I am deeply grateful to you all for 
your efforts to aid me.” 

The distracted Sergeant, driven well-nigh to despair by 
this unexpected obstinacy, would have protested further, 
but Jerry silenced him with a look, and rising to his feet, 
picked up his hat. 

“If you are determined, Mr. Burgoyne, there’s nothing 
more to be said,” he remarked. “I’ll report your decision. 
I was told that, if you persisted in staying here, I was to 
ask you to ride out this evening to the clump of trees where 
your rescue was effected, so as to reach there by six o’clock.” 

“But it is already nearly five, and the place is a long way 
from here,” objected Stephen, who ached in every muscle of 
his body, and to whom the prospect of a long ride was 
decidedly uninviting. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 237 

“It’s about forty minutes on a good horse,” said Jerry. 
“Is your own horse well yet?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then take him. It’s important, Mr. Burgoyne; very 
important indeed. Another’s safety is at stake besides 
your own.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m not permitted to say more. Will you keep the tryst?” 

“I suppose I must in that case.” Stephen sighed resign¬ 
edly. “I will contrive to be there by six or a few minutes 
after.” 

Left alone, Stephen sought his own apartment. He 
flung himself wearily into a chair near the open window, 
w r hich overlooked the highway, and gave himself up to his 
unenviable thoughts. 

Presently the sound of hoofs outside attracted his atten¬ 
tion, and he glanced idly down at the road. Two riders 
were approaching the inn at a walking pace, one a man and 
the other a woman, and to his amazement he recognized 
them as Ned Carless and Lady Meltondene. 

A strange companionship surely, thought Stephen. 
Although he recollected that Lady Meltondene had men¬ 
tioned Carless’s name, he had been unaware that the twain 
were actually acquainted, and he most certainly never ex¬ 
pected to see her out riding with one whom he knew to be 
a notorious highwayman. Yet, upon reflection, he found 
the matter less strange than it had at first appeared. To 
everyone in the district Carless was nothing more nor less 
than a plain country squire—one who was regarded rather 
askance by the more stolid section of the community, but 
w T ho had never been suspected of being guilty of aught more 
serious than recklessness. 

Such a state of things was by no means exceptional at 
this period. Impoverished gentlemen, many of them honored 
and respected by their fellows, and who apparently led 
blameless and uneventful lives, found highway robbery an 


238 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


easy, though hazardous, means of replenishing their purses; 
and it is certain that some of them contrived to live their 
Jekyll and Hyde lives to the natural end, and to leave 
behind them unblemished reputations. 

To the natives of Bolderburn and district Ned Carless 
was “TIP Squire o’ Worpleden.” He lived in the house 
that a Carless had built long over a century ago—a house 
mortgaged to the hilt certainly, but a house that could surely 
be home to none but a Carless. Had any of the country 
folk been told that he was about to wed the fascinating 
widow Lady Meltondene they would have marvelled, not 
that so aristocratic a lady should condescend to wed a 
country squire, but that a Carless should stoop to espouse 
one whose birth was so much inferior to his own. 

As the two riders approached the inn, Stephen observed 
that something was amiss between them. Carless’s expres¬ 
sion was scowling and sullen, whilst Lady Meltondene’s 
head was carried high, and a cynical little smile played 
about the corners of her beautiful mouth. That they had 
quarrelled was evident, and when Lady Meltondene reined 
in her horse opposite the inn door, Ned made no effort to 
circumvent the ostler who ran forward to assist her in dis¬ 
mounting. 

“Please don’t wait for me, Mr. Carless,” Stephen heard 
her say sweetly. “My business here will probably occupy 
me for some time.” 

“You will meet me tomorrow?” Carless’s voice matched 
his expression. 

“Perhaps. I cannot say,” she replied indifferently, as she 
slipped gracefully to the ground and stood tapping the palm 
of her left gauntlet with her riding-whip. 

“You must meet me,” he cried fiercely, heedless of the 
bystanders who were watching them curiously. 

“Must is a word I never took from any man, Mr. Carless, 
not even from my late husband,” she retorted haughtily, 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


239 


and, turning, she entered the inn as Carless put spurs to 
his horse and galloped off down the road like a madman. 

Somewhat tardily, the object of Lady Meltondene’s call 
at the inn became apparent to Stephen, and, having no wish 
to meet her, he sprang to his feet with the intention of seek¬ 
ing refuge in his bedroom. But he was too late. Before 
he could reach the door someone knocked discreetly on its 
outer surface, and it opened to admit Lady Meltondene 
herself. 

“You must forgive me for entering unannounced, my 
dear Stephen,” she said coolly, as she closed the door behind 
her. “But you can scarce blame me. Thrice have I 
called here since the day when that minx Sylvia Ravenscourt 
surprised us together, and thrice have I been told that you 
were out.” She seated herself in the chair which Stephen 
had vacated. “So, as I knew of a certainty that, on at least 
one of those occasions you were in this very room, I was in 
no mind to take a fourth refusal without an explanation of 
why you find it necessary to avoid me.” 

“I should have thought that was obvious,” he returned 
coldly. “I had no desire for a repetition of the scene which 
Miss Ravenscourt witnessed.” 

“You thought me over bold that day?” She drew off 
her gauntlets and tosssed them on to the table. 

“Bold is scarcely the word, madam. Unwomanly would 
be a fitter one.” 

She laughed harshly. “What despicable creatures men 
are!” she said scornfully. “The prize they covet is priceless 
as long as it is unattainable, valueless once they possess it. 
You would have sold your soul for my kisses when ’twas my 
will to give them to another; now, when I give them to you 
unasked, you call me unwomanly.” 

“You put the matter cleverly, madam, but you awake no 
contrition in me.” His lip curled contemptuously. “You 
wilfully disregard the many things which an excellent 
memory will not allow me to forget.” 


240 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


She sighed; then her face softened, and she lifted appealing 
eyes to his. “Am I not young enough, beautiful enough, 
desirable enough to make you forget, Stephen dear?” she 
murmured softly. 

“No!” 

She shrank before the curt monosyllable as though she 
had been struck, but she made a further appeal to him— 
desperately this time, as though she knew that she was 
fighting a losing battle. 

“Give me one more chance, Stephen, just one more 
chance to prove to you how boundless, how intense my love 
for you has become. I know what a fool I have been in the 
past, and God knows that I have paid bitterly for my folly! 
Don’t condemn me too harshly because I didn’t recognize 
love when it came to me. I was young and inexperienced, 
wilful and vain; my head had been turned by admiration. 
But I am wiser now. I know that without love life is an 
empty husk, and I plead for the gift that I thoughlessly cast 
aside, not knowing what I did.” 

He would have stopped her, but she paid him no heed. 

“I do not ask much, Stephen. Here in the north you 
and I are remote from our own vrorld. Here we have an 
opportunity of meeting constantly, away from the prying 
eyes and malicious tongues of London. If we seize that 
opportunity, ’twill not take you long to discover whether 
or no my love be worthy and true. A month, a fortnight, 
a week will convince you. Give me that week, Stephen 
dear. Be with me for seven long, wonderful days, and I 
vow that never again will you wish to leave my side nor 
I yours.” 

She had not moved whilst she had been speaking, but 
now she flung out both her hands in supplication, and lifted 
passionate, tear-filled eyes to his. But she saw not a hint 
of compassion in the hard face above her; and her hands 
dropped to her sides and the ready tears coursed down her 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 241 

cheeks as she awaited the reply that would ring the knell 
of all her fondest hopes. 

It came at last—in cold, measured tones that froze the 
very heart within her. 

“I have already discovered all I wish to know about you, 
Barbara,” he said; “aye, far more than all. I do not 
doubt that, in your own peculiar way, you love me. But 
you have loved others in the same way, a considerable number 
of others-” 

“No, no, not in the same way, Stephen,” she cried, in 
agonized accents. 

He disregarded her interruption. “Were you the only 
woman left alive on earth, beautiful and seductive as you 
are, you would be powerless to quicken my pulses by a 
beat,” he pursued. “We have naught in common, Barbara. 
And for the peace of mind of both of us it would be best 
if, in the future, we were strangers to each other.” 

For a moment she sat white and listless, stricken by des¬ 
pair. Then the curves of her mouth changed into a thin 
red line, and she rose to her feet and confronted him. 

“Is that your final word, Stephen?” she asked. 

“It is, madam.” 

“Does it count for nothing with you that what chanced 
in Sylvia Ravenscourt’s presence has compromised me past 
redemption ?” 

“I am indifferent, madam. You knew full well the con¬ 
sequences of what you did if you failed in your purpose, 
and you acted deliberately, with ruthless disregard for my 
unenviable position in the matter.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “So be it,” she said. “Your 
blood be upon your own head.” 

He laughed. “Melodrama suits you, Barbara,” he said 
tolerantly. 

“You will probably find that my melodrama is your 
tragedy,” she retorted fiercely, her eyes blazing and her 
fists clenched. “There can be no middle course for you and 



242 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


me, Stephen. We must either love or hate, and if you 
choose the latter you must take the consequences.” 

“And what are the consequences, pray?” His contemp¬ 
tuous smile raised her anger to fever heat. 

“For you the gallows and for me the intense pleasure 
of knowing that no other woman—not even Averill Staple- 
ton—will ever call you husband.” 

“The gallows!” he echoed, retreating a pace before her 
vehemence, and eyeing her askance. 

“Aye, the gallows.” She laughed harshly and mirth¬ 
lessly. “A word from me will send you there.” 

“Indeed.” His nonchalance was admirable, and the 
hand with which he idly toyed with the quizzing glass 
which hung by a ribbon from his neck betrayed no tremor. 

“Aye, in very deed,” she retorted. “I will spend the 
reward on flowers for the grave into which they will event¬ 
ually fling you after the flesh has rotted from your bones, 
Mr. Highwayman.” 

“ ’Tis kind of you, madam. You suspect me, then, of 
being one of the two criminals described on the proclama¬ 
tion without, eh?” 

“No, I do not suspect; I know. You and Ned Carless 
are the wanted men. I was in the coffee-room below 
when the two of you returned after your escape. You 
were indiscreet, sir, both of you. The window was open, 
and I heard every word you said. Lest you think I lie, 
let me repeat some of your own words. ‘Methinks the 
wisest course would be to keep close for a day or two until 
the hue and cry has died down/ You remember them, 
Stephen ?” 

“I do, madam,” he said, with studied indifference. 
“Well?” 

“My testimony against you will hang you,” she said 
viciously. 

“Probably it will if you give it,” he agreed lightly. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


243 


“But ere you can lodge your information with the authorities 
I can be many miles from here if I choose.” 

“Ah! You would run away,” she sneered contemptu¬ 
ously. “Cowardice is an unsuspected trait in your charac¬ 
ter.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “And will continue to be 
so, I trust,” he said indifferently. 

“Let us hope so.” She smiled cynically. “Yet he who 
runs away is usually suspect.” 

“Have no fear; I shall not run away,” he declared grim¬ 
ly. “An your assassins want me they will find me here, 
madam.” 

Fear gleamed for a moment in her eyes at his unexpected 
assertion, and she gazed at him in uncertain wonderment. 

“You propose to make no effort to prevent these men 
from arresting you?” She spoke incredulously. 

“That is another matter, madam.” He smiled. “What 
will happen if they seek to take me time alone can disclose, 
but I shall certainly not make any attempt to hide from 
them.” 

That she was puzzled was obvious, and she sat for awhile 
in contemplative silence, drumming lightly upon the table 
with her finger-tips. Then the clock chimed, and the sound 
recalled to Stephen’s mind the tryst which he had made. 

“Madam, I pray you allow me to take my leave,” he said. 
“I must to horse at once, else I shall be late for a most 
pressing engagement.” 

She rose to her feet abruptly and regarded him with sus¬ 
picious eyes. “Another woman, eh? One more attractive 
than I am, I suppose,” she snapped. 

“No, madam, a man,” he returned coldly. “A man to 
whom I am vastly indebted.” 

“Ah! forgive me, Stephen,” she cried penitently. “I am 
a jealous fool. I will go now; perhaps at some future time 
I may find you in more friendly mood towards me.” She 
spoke meaningly. “Yet before I go I should like to make a 


244 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


bargain with you. I can command great influence here¬ 
abouts. It is in my power not only to prevent your arrest, 
but to compel Crisp to withdraw his proclamation and to 
cease his activities against you for good and all.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “And pray how would you 
accomplish that?” he asked sceptically. 

She smiled enigmatically. “That must be my secret, 
Stephen,” she said softly. “But I can do it if you say the 
word.” 

“And what word do you wish me to say,, Barbara?” 

“A very easy one,” she murmured. “You must find 
time hang heavily on your hands here since Lord Alverford 
deserted you for Miss Ravenscourt.” 

“I do, a little,” he admitted. 

“And all I ask is that you will promise to devote to me 
three hours of each day for the next week.” 

“To what purpose?” 

She took a step towards him. “That I may fan to 
flame the embers of your old love for me,” she breathed. 
“I know that I can do it, Stephen.” 

“And if I refuse?” The question was asked in level 
tones which betrayed nothing. 

“If you be so incredibly foolish, Stephen, I shall go to 
the High Constable and tell him all I know.” 

“You are determined on that, Barbara?” 

“I am,” she replied resolutely. 

He strode to the door and flung it wide. “Then go, 
madam!” he cried. “And I wish you joy of your task.” 

Without another word he strode from the room, and 
a few minutes later Barbara, sitting nerveless and stricken 
in the chair into which she had sunk, heard the clatter of 
his horse’s hoofs as he cantered away towards the north. 


CHAPTER XVI 


IN WHICH A HANDKERCHIEF PLAYS A MOMENTOUS PART 

T HE minutes passed slowly by, and the large hand of the 
solmen-faced grandfather clock had completely circled 
the dial before Barbara Beltondene roused herself from her 
lethargy. 

Stephen’s unbending attitude, and his uncompromising 
refusal of her offer, had literally stupefied her. For, des¬ 
pite what had chanced at their former meeting, she had felt 
supremely confident of eventually gaining her way with 
him. Rendered by her many triumphs vain and egotistical 
to a degree, she had almost come to believe it beyond any 
man’s power to resist her for long if she exerted herself to 
conquer him; and she had thought that the strength of 
Stephen’s former impassioned devotion to her, reinforced by 
the sharp weapon which her knowledge of his secret gave 
her, made her victory doubly certain. How could a young 
and vigorous man refuse the amazing dual gift of his own 
life and the love of one of the most beautiful and seductive 
women in England? Yet Stephen had refused it—refused 
it with scorn and contempt, leaving her alone with the bitter 
knowledge that she, the spoilt darling of Fortune, had 
failed finally and ignominiously to win the one thing in life 
that could have given her true and lasting happiness. 

At last she lifted up her head and gazed listlessly round the 
room in which she had no right to be sitting. It was so 
obviously a man’s room. Apart from herself and the gloves 
which she had thrown on to the table, there was not a 
feminine thing in it. 


245 


246 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Yet even as this thought crossed Barbara’s mind her 
wandering glance caught t-he gleam of something white 
which lay on the floor near the door. It was a handkerchief 
which had fallen unnoticed from Stephen’s pocket as he 
made his abrupt exit, and now Barbara, once more alert, 
rose quickly from her chair and picked it up. And as she 
did so her eyes became hard and steely, and her mouth 
set in cruel, disfiguring lines. 

The handkerchief was small and bordered with lace. 
This was not unusual with the handkerchiefs of fashionable 
gentlemen, and it was neither its size nor its daintiness that 
awakened Barbara Meltondene’s tigerish rage. Two initials 
were the cause of this—an A and an S, which were em¬ 
broidered on one corner of the frail fabric. 

So Averill Stapleton had been here, thought Lady Melton- 
dene, leaping swiftly to the obvious but erroneous con¬ 
clusion. And not very long ago either, else Stephen had 
found the handkerchief himself. The sly minx had actually 
started visiting him then! The affair had very certainly 
progressed much farther than she, Barbara Meltondene, 
had suspected. Herein lay the explanation of Stephen’s 
attitude towards her! It was not her own charms which 
had failed her; she had been forestalled by another who, 
acting with a precipitation for which Barbara would never 
have given her credit, had snatched the prize which she 
coveted. 

Well, her triumph would be short-lived. ’Twould be a 
pretty sight for Averill Stapleton to see her affianced lover 
hanging by the neck! For so he would hang if Barbara 
thought fit to give evidence against him. 

A vindictive smile marred Barbara’s beauty. Anyone 
watching her as she stood slowly and ruthlessly tearing the 
handkerchief to shreds would have known that she had 
formed a grim and relentless resolution. At that moment 
her face was a hideous caricature of itself, and the laugh 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 247 

which issued from her lips as she flung the lace fragments 
from her was the laugh of a heartless crone. 

The crushed and tattered pieces of fabric fluttered down 
to the carpet. They were all that remained of what had 
been Stephen’s most cherished possession, for the handker¬ 
chief was the one with which Averill had bathed his wrists 
when he lay captive in her uncle’s loose-box. He had 
contrived to steal it—cleverly, as he thought, but not 
sufficiently so as to escape Averill’s quick eyes. Bpt she 
had said no word of protest; the romantic folly of the 
theft had thrilled her, and she had left him in ignorance of 
the fact that she had seen him surreptitiously wring the 
water from it and place it in the inside pocket of his coat. 

It was the finding of the handkerchief that had brought 
resolution to Barbara’s mind. Without it she might have 
shrunk from encompassing the dishonor and death of the 
man she loved, but with it every evil passion which jealously 
may breed was born in her on the instant. The horror 
of what she was about to do, instead of repelling her, gave 
her a malignant satisfaction; and she laughed again as she 
began to draw on her gloves. 

At that moment heavy footsteps sounded in the passage, 
and without preliminary knock the door was thrust open. 

Barbara turned sharply to find the High Constable con¬ 
fronting her, a look of bewildered astonishment on his face. 
Behind him she could see two of his men, half crouching, 
with cocked pistols held ready in their hands. 

“Your—your pardon, Lady Meltondene,” stammered Mr. 
Crisp apologetically, as he bowled in sycophantic homage. 
“I—er—perhaps I have been misinformed. I seek Mr. 
Burgoyne. Is not this his apartment?” 

“It is,” replied Barbara coolly. “Have you come to 
arrest him?” , 

Mr. Crisp crimsoned with annoyance, but his regard for 
the lady’s exalted station checked the retort that sprang 
to his lips. 


248 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“That I cannot-” he began, but Barbara interrupted 

him impatiently. 

“I know all about it, Mr. Crisp,” she said. “Mr. 
Burgoyne left here over an hour ago.” 

But before Mr. Crisp could reply Sir Randolph Gorst, 
his battered face aflame with rage, strode into the room 
and thrust him to one side. 

“So ho! it’s her ladyship of Meltondene, is it?” he cried. 
“What in the fiend’s name are you doing here, madam?” 

She smiled superciliously at him. “I might, perhaps 
with more right, ask the same question of . you, Sir Ran¬ 
dolph,” she retorted serenely. 

“ ’Tis easily answered, madam,” he said grimly. “I 
came to see your old lover, Buck Burgoyne, arrested for 
highway robbery.” 

“Ah! Then you are disappointed, sir.” 

“For the moment only, I think. Where is he?” 

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” 

“Do you expect me to believe that?” he shouted angrily. 
“You lying Jezebel! 1 know you of old, Barbara Melton¬ 
dene, and I have no scruples in dealing with your kind. 
Either you tell the truth, or I’ll-” 

He literally choked with passion as, his hand upraised 
threateningly, he took a quick step towards her. But she 
did not flinch. Instead she drew herself up to her full 
height, and the eyes which met his own were agleam with 
a superb scorn. 

“You don’t change very much, Randolph,” she said, her 
lip curling disdainfully. “You are still the same gallant, 
chivalrous gentleman, it seems.” 

Her words goaded him to madness. That he would 
have struck her there is no doubt had not Mr. Crisp, scan¬ 
dalized beyond measure by his patron’s conduct, boldly 
slipped between them. 

“Gently, Sir Randolph, gently,” he said soothingly. “Lady 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 249 

Meltondene will, I am sure, give us such information as 
she may possess.” 

“She shall answer my question,” declared Gorst obstin¬ 
ately, though somewhat chastened by Mr. Crisp’s interfer¬ 
ence. 

“I have answered it,” said Barbara coldly. “And truth¬ 
fully too.” Suddenly her eyes blazed. “You imbecile! 
Do you think to use force with me? You have tried it 
before, and methinks it availed you little. Had that blow 
fallen, Sir Randolph Gorst, you had sealed my lips for good 
and all, and without my testimony you would find it no 
easy matter to prove anything against Stephen Burgoyne.” 

The anger fell from Gorst like a discarded cloak, and Mr. 
Crisp’s eyes shone with excitement. 

“You can help us then, Lady Meltondene?” cried the 
High Constable eagerly. 

“I can if I choose,” she replied calmly. 

“And will you?” 

A slow smile broke about the corners of her mouth. 
“That depends upon Sir Randolph,” she said. 

“How?” Gorst had turned surly, and he snapped out 
the word ill-temperedly. 

“Before I speak a word you must apologize to me for for¬ 
getting on two occasions how a lady should be treated,” 
she said sweetly. 

“And what if I don’t apologize?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “Then I shall bid you a 
very good day, and leave you to your own devices.” She 
flashed at him a threatening glance. “And woe betide you 
if you attempt to prevent my going, sir!” 

For a moment he stood scowling at her; then his eyes 
lighted with suspicion. “ ’Tis a small price you ask—an 
unusually small price for you,” he said offensively. “You 
set a high value on your services as a rule, madam. And 
there was a time when you professed to love this man whom 
you now propose to betray.” 


250 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“I await your apology, Sir Randolph,” she reminded 
him serenely. 

He hesitated, but an imploring glance from Mr. Crisp 
decided him. “Very well; have it your own way,” he said 
ungraciously. “I apologize—you hellcat!” he added, under 
his breath. 

“That is a little better, sir, and possibly ’tis as much as 
you are capable of,” she said. “And now tell me why 
you seek to encompass Stephen Burgoyne’s ruin, Randolph.” 

“Because I hate him,” he replied, with vindictive prompti¬ 
tude. 

“Ah! Then we are birds of a feather.” 

“What! You hate him, too, Barbara? Why?” 

“For reasons of my own which must remain my own. 
But they are sufficient—more than sufficient. Be seated, 
gentlemen, and I will tell you what I know.” 

The eyes of the two men gleamed as they listened to 
Barbara’s short but damning story. The one saw within 
his grasp the means to dispose of his enemy for good and 
all; the other heard in imagination the encomiums which 
would be showered upon his name by all good citizens for 
his cleverness in bringing to justice a malefactor so elusive 
and aristocratic. 

“You are prepared to swear to this before the justices, 
Lady Meltondene?” Mr. Crisp was eagerness personified 
as he asked the question. 

“When and where you will, Mr. Crisp,” replied Barbara 
succinctly. 

“Gad, Barbara! but you are a good hater,” said Gorst 
admiringly, appraising her with eyes that had begun to burn 
with an unpleasant light. “If you can give love in the 
same measure, the man to whom you give it will know 
heaven before his time.” 

She withered him with a glance. “Hell is more like 
to be your portion, Randolph—both here and hereafter,” 
she retorted coldly. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


251 


“I am not so sure of that, Barbara,” he said meaningly, 
the smouldering fire in his eyes leaping to flame under their 
half-closed lids. “After all, the flower which blooms close 
at hand is often more fragrant than that which grows out 
of reach,” he continued, with apparent irrelevance. 

“And pray what may that mean?” she queried sharply. 

“It may mean anything or nothing,” he replied enigmatic¬ 
ally. “Time will show, Barbara. At present we are con¬ 
cerned with Burgoyne. You are sure he hasn’t taken fright 
and flown?” 

“I am certain,” she answered positively. “Had he in¬ 
tended to do that, he would have done it long ago. And 
ere he left me he declared he would return.” 

“Why did he make such a declaration ?” asked Gorst sus¬ 
piciously. 

“That is my affair, sir. Let it suffice that he made it.” 

“Then you think our best course is to await him here?” 

“That is as you please. He will certainly come back here 
sooner or later.” 

“And what of his companion, the mail with whom you saw 
him on the day following the crime? Did you know him?” 

“I didn’t see him clearly.” She lied convincingly. “Ele 
was hidden from me by the angle of the wall, and when he 
rode away I saw only his back.” 

“How was he clothed?” 

“That I cannot say.” She yawned. “I was not suffi¬ 
ciently interested in him to notice his dress.” 

“Hum! Burgoyne rode north when he went out just 
now r , you say?” Gorst was eyeing her keenly. He had begun 
to suspect that she was deceiving them, but he could not 
make her uncompromising denunciation of Stephen accord 
with his suspicions. 

“He did. And that is all I know of his movements,” 

Gorst turned to the High Constable. “How many men 
have you here, Crisp?” he asked. 

“A round dozen besides ourselves,” answered Mr. Crisp. 


252 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Then send half of them after him. If they don’t sight 
him ere the darkness falls let them return here. That’s 
all right, man,” he continued impatiently, as Mr. Crisp be¬ 
gan to murmur against this proposed division of his forces. 
“Eight of us are surely enough to arrest him if he return. 
Go and give your orders.” 

With an ill grace Mr. Crisp went to do his patron’s 
bidding, and as the door closed behind him, Gorst leaned for¬ 
ward and gazed keenly into the beautiful face before him, 

“Are you playing straight or crooked, Barbara?” he 
queried. 

“That is a point you must decide for yourself,” she re¬ 
turned nonchalantly. “No protestations of mine would 
convince you if you doubt me.” 

“Hum!” Sir Randolph stroked his chin and pondered 
awhile. Then he said: “I suppose we must trust you.” 

“Either fully or not at all,” snapped Barbara. 

“Very well,” he capitulated. “That makes us allies, 
Barbara. Once upon a time we were friends; can we not 
be so again?” 

She turned on him swiftly with a haughty disdain which 
intensified her beauty and made her appear doubly desirable 
to the gloating eyes of the man sitting there. 

“Never!” she cried vehemently. “I am become your 
ally for my own purposes, but no power on earth could per¬ 
suade me to become your friend. We are merely ac¬ 
quaintances, drawn together momentarily by the web of cir¬ 
cumstances, and more than that we shall never be. ’Twill 
save unpleasantness if you will please remember it.” 

He smiled easily. “I’ll remember it, madam, never 
fear,” he replied tolerantly. “You will doubtless tell me 
when I am at liberty to forget it.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


TELLS HOW STEPHEN AGAIN FOUND HIMSELF CAPTIVE 

B LACK despair rode cheek by jowl with Stephen as he 
went to keep his tryst which Jerry Dodd had made for 
him. For his foolish and persistent obstinacy was like to prove 
his slayer. Deep down in his heart he bitterly regretted his 
braggart vows to stay in Bolderburn until Averill Staple- 
ton had capitulated to him. His wooing of her—if wooing 
it could be called—had been nothing more nor less than a 
series of disastrous episodes in which he had invariably 
appeared to the worst possible advantage; and they had 
inevitably culminated in her being, at this moment, infinite¬ 
ly more aloof from him than she had been on the very first 
day he saw her. She disliked him, she distrusted him, and 
she despised him—a pretty situation indeed! 

Yet in spite of all this he was deliberately imperilling 
his life to be near her! Was there in all the universe such 
another fatuous fool as he? Why had he refused to heed 
the warning which she herself had sent him? Surely that 
warning, coming as it did from her, had absolved him from 
those imbecile vows. Had he accepted that absolution, 
it had been an easy matter to disappear for a while and to 
return at a later date, when Crisp would, in all probability, 
have forgotten his very existence. Yes, but to do that he 
would have been compelled, for the nonce, to leave that 
pestilent villain Gorst without a rival—for, since the arrival 
of Miss Ravenscourt, Alverford could no longer be regarded 
as such—and he shuddered to think that Averill might 
succumb to the salacious passion of such a man. That was 
253 


254 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


the crux of the matter. Tardily he admitted to himself 
that it was not his vows alone that kept him; to them must 
be added this haunting dread that Averill might think fit 
to give herself to another during his absence. 

Still, it was scarcely credible that she would willingly 
become the wife of a man of Gorst’s calibre; she was too 
clear-headed for that, too good a judge of character. But 
was she? Had she not already misjudged Stephen himself 
most woefully? And besides, how could he depart and take 
with him the knowledge that she believed him to be the 
lover of Barbara Meltondene? Barbara Meltonden*! 
Damn the woman! She had caused him more agony of 
mind, more trouble, than anybody he had ever met, and 
he cursed her from his very soul. 

This unpleasant reverie was at length cut short by the 
hail of a familiar voice, and, raising his bent head, Stephen 
saw that he was abreast of the clump of trees of which 
Jerry had spoken. But for the friendly hail he would have 
passed it by, so lost was he in his gloomy musings. 

A tinker’s cart, which he instantly recognized, was drawn 
up by the roadside. The tinker himself stood beside his 
browsing donkey, and he looked up with shrewd eyes at 
the glum countenance of the horseman who now reined in 
his mount before him. 

“Lor’ love me boots, but ye look desprit down’earted, 
sir, swelp me!” he said, with gentle raillery. “Whatever’s 
the matter, now?” 

“Matter enough and to spare,” growled Stephen. “But 
that will keep. I came here to meet Ned. Have you 
seen him?” 

“Aye, I’ve seen ’im all right,” replied the tinker, scratch¬ 
ing his ear. “An ’e’s just about as j’yous an’ ’appy as you 
are. Ye ain’t a-goin’ to a funeral now, are ye, the pair o’ 
ye? Or to one o’ them tea-parties?” 

“No,” replied Stephen, laughing despite himself. 

“Ah! Then ye’ve quarrelled.” The tinker shook his 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


255 


head dolefully. “That’s it, ye’ve quarrelled. Ye’re both 
tarred wiv the same brush, you an’ Ned; wilful an’ obstin¬ 
ate as Adam there, both on ye. Ye wus born to be friends, 
but ye wus born to quarrel too; nothink else ain’t to be 
expected no’ow. What is it? A woman?” 

“There is no quarrel between us nor the likelihood of 
one, William,” said Stephen impatiently. “Ned sent for 
me to meet him here at six o’clock, and here I am.” 

“Aye, ’ere ye are right enough,” agreed the tinker, 
sighing. “ ’Arf an hour late, too, ye’ll observe, Mr. 
Burgoyne; an’ Ned doesn’t take kindly to bein’ kept waitin’, 
’im bein’ an impatient sort o’ cove, d’ye see?” 

“I’m sorry I’m late, but I could not help it. Has Ned 
gone, then?” 

“Aye, ’e’s gone, but not so far. It ain’t what ye might 
call diplomatic for ’im to be seen waitin’ about on the 
public road—not nowadays anyway.” The tinker looked 
sharply up and down the deserted highway, and then he 
pointed to a hillock which rose above the surrounding moor 
some few hundred yards away. “D’ye see that there 
little ’ill, sir? Well, Ned’s be’ind that a-waitin’ for ye, 
an’ I’ll bet ’e’s a-cussin’ of ye till ’e’s blue in the face for 
keepin’ ’im kickin’ ’is ’eels till now.” 

“Thank you, William. But why in heaven’s name 
didn’t you tell me that at once?” asked Stephen irritably, 
as he prepared to depart. 

“Becos’ I wanted to make sure as there wasn’t goin’ to be 
no trouble'atwixt ye, d’ye see?” explained the tinker, smiling 
shrewdly. “If I’d ’ave found as there was like to be 
ructions—an’ ye both of ye look like ructions—I should 
’ave reckoned as Ned couldn’t wait for ye, an’ ye’d ’ave gone 
’ome again an’ no ’arm done, d’ye see?” 

He watched Stephen as he cantered away across the 
moor, and he shook his head as he saw him disappear behind 
the knoll. 

“There’s trouble brewin’, Adam,” he said solemnly, 


256 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


addressing his donkey. “Pints, gallons, oceans o’ trouble! 
An’ I reckon as it’s not quite the sort o’ trouble as Mr. 
Burgoyne expects, neither, swelp me!” 

Stephen was somewhat surprised to find Jerry Dodd 
with Carless. The two men were sitting together behind 
the knoll, holding the bridles of their horses to prevent them 
from straying and being observed from the road. As he 
dismounted he noted the black frown which disfigured Car- 
less’s face, and he concluded therefrom that the highwayman 
had not yet recovered from the mood of which the tinker 
had spoken. 

“You are late, Burgoyne.” The words were curt and 
flicked Stephen’s temper on the raw. 

“ ’Twas unavoidable,” he returned shortly. “I was 
delayed.” 

Carless sneered openly. “I know it,” he said meaningly. 
“I’ll wager you were not ill-pleased to be delayed, either.” 

“What mean you?” There was anger in the words— 
an anger which was answered instantly by the flame which 
leaped in Carless’s eyes. 

“I mean what I say,” he retorted. “For myself, I 
should have been charmed beyond measure had I been given 
the same cause for delay.” 

Here Jerry, who was watching the two men closely, 
thought it expedient to interfere. 

“Is it wise to linger here, Ned?” he interposed uncere¬ 
moniously. “If Crisp is up to time he must be at the inn 
by now, and he is sure to set out in pursuit of Mr. Burgoyne 
without delay.” 

“Had Mr. Burgoyne been punctual there would have 
been no need for haste,” retorted Carless sourly. “But 
you are right. Let us away. Be good enough to follow us, 
Burgoyne.” 

For an instant Stephen hesitated, undecided whether to 
obey or to return the way he had come. Carless paid him 
no heed, but mounted his horse and rode away without so 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


257 


much as a glance in his direction; but Jerry was less pre¬ 
cipitate. He had noted Stephen’s indecision, and it alarmed 
him. 

“Don’t be a fool, Mr. Burgoyne,” he said urgently. 
“Ned means well and seeks only to help you. Take no 
notice of his manner; he has had much to upset him of 
late. Mount your horse, and think no more about it.” 

Thus urged, Stephen reluctantly did as Jerry advised, 
and the two men galloped away in Carless’s wake. And 
gallop they had to, regardless of the uneven and treacherous 
surface, for Carless rode like a very fiend. His mount was 
a good one, a thoroughbred roan mare, and she spurned 
the broken ground beneath flying feet in a manner that 
called for admiration for both herself and her rider. 

“ ’Fore gad! he is in a mighty hurry,” grumbled Stephen, 
when they had proceeded thus for over a mile. 

“He has good cause for haste, believe me,” returned 
Jerry drily. 

“Wither go we?” asked Stephen. 

“In the first instance, to Simister’s Barn. You have been 
there before, I think.” 

“Is it the place to which I was taken after my rescue?” 

“It is. There Ned will unfold certain plans which he 
has made for your benefit, and if you will take my advice 
you will refrain from running counter to him in any one 
particular.” 

Coming at last to the barn, Stephen and Jerry dismounted 
and, following their leader’s example, led their horses inside. 
The highwayman, who had arrived some minutes before 
them, was seated upon an upturned pail gloomily staring at 
the crumbling wall before him. He turned his head as they 
entered, and watched them tether their horses alongside his 
mare. Then he bade Jerry close the door, which done, 
he motioned his companions to seat themselves on a couple 
of empty boxes which stood opposite to him. 

“Now, Burgoyne, I want you to listen carefully, and to 


258 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


answer without quibble any questions I may ask,” he said, 
with quiet emphasis. “You are in pretty desperate straits, 
as you are doubtless aware. Why then did you disregard 
the warning to make yourself scarce which I sent by Jerry?” 

Stephen flushed slightly. “Because I had made a vow 
to remain in Bolderburn until—until the end of August,” he 
replied, with obvious embarrassment. 

“But, why, i’ gad’s name, should you pledge yourself 
thus?” asked Carless, his eyes wide with surprise. 

“I—I cannot explain, Ned,” he answered lamely. “ ’Twas 
done without thought of the consequences, and I have al¬ 
ready rued it.” 

“Hum! Well, I shall have to ask you to break it, that 
is all,” said Carless, shrugging his shoulders. 

“That I cannot do, Ned.” 

“Yet you must.” Carless’s tone was decisive. “The 
time has come when nice points of honor can no longer be 
considered, Burgoyne. But for your coming here to meet 
me you had now been captive again, with no possibility 
of rescue and no hope of escape. You realize that?” 

“Very fully.” 

“That is well. Now, ’tis my belief that once in Crisp’s 
clutches nothing could save you from the extreme penalty 
of the law. Neither influence nor wealth would avail you, 
Burgoyne.” 

“I know it.” 

“Then why do you behave like a fool?” demanded Car¬ 
less testily. “Such vows as yours are usually made to 
pander to the empty whim of some thoughtless woman, and 
I’ll wager that yours is no exception.” 

“That is my affair,” retorted Stephen, his face flushing 
again—this time with anger. “And I’ll trouble you not 
to interfere in matters which don’t concern you.” 

“Sits the wind in that quarter, eh?” Carless laughed in 
vexation. “By God, Burgoyne, but you try my temper 
past endurance! For what purpose do you think I have 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


259 


gone to so much trouble to get you free and to keep you 
free? Answer me that.” 

The anger faded from Stephen’s face. “Your reminder 
is timely, Ned,” he said contritely. “I must appear deuced 
ungrateful. Yet I cannot break my vow.” 

“Very well; I must break it for you,” said Carless grim¬ 
ly. “You are no longer free, my friend.” 

“What mean you?” queried Stephen sharply. 

“I mean that you are my prisoner. From this moment 
you will do exactly as I tell you, otherwise-” and Car¬ 

less shrugged his shoulders significantly. 

“But this is an outrage!” protested Stephen hotly. “You 
cannot keep me prisoner against my will.” 

“I can and I will!” declared Carless. His eyes gleamed 
ominously, and all at once Stephen found himself staring 
into the muzzle of a double-barrelled pistol. “Listen to 
me. I am not bluffing, Burgoyne. From what I have 
heard during the past few hours it appears to me that if 
you are taken my own arrest will most certainly follow^. 
Now, I have no mind to hang by the neck yet awhile; I 
still find life sufficiently sweet to make death unwelcome. 
Hence I shall have not the slightest compunction in using 
this pistol if you make it necessary.” 

“You would shoot me in cold blood?” cried Stephen in¬ 
credulously. 

“You forget my trade, sir,” retorted Carless, with a hard 
laugh. The set of his mouth and the tone of his voice left 
Stephen in no doubt as to his grim sincerity. “I am an 
outlaw. As such, the hand of every law-abiding citizen 
is against me, and when ’tis a case of my life or another’s, 
you can scarce blame me if I take the other’s.” 

“Then you have already committed murder,” Stephen 
flashed at him. 

Carless smiled. “Not yet, Burgoyne. Up to now I 
have been fortunate. But if you do not give me implicit 



260 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

obedience you will certainly be my first victim. Have 
I your parole that you will make no attempt to escape? 

“No, you have not,” snapped Stephen. 

“As you please.” He waved his hand negligently; and 
before Stephen could offer any effective resistence Jerry had 
leapt upon him and borne him to the ground. He struggled 
violently, but the cold pressure of the pistol barrels in the 
back of his neck, and the colder voice which bade him lie 
still, made him cease his exertions, and within a minute 
he found himself lying on his back with his hands and feet 
securely trussed. 

“You are really very obstinate, Burgoyne,” remarked 
Carless, in accents of weariness. “Remember that you 
brought this upon yourself, and that a word from you will 
release you from your bonds. And I promise you that 
naught else will avail you. Jerry has infinite skill with rope. 
Prop him up with his back to the wall, Jerry.” 

The ex-trooper did as he was bidden, seizing the oppor¬ 
tunity to whisper a further warning into Stephen’s ear. 

“For God’s sake, be careful!” he breathed. “He is 
in deadly earnest; I know him. Make the best of it, man, 
and do as he asks.” 

But Stephen preserved an obstinate silence; and after a 
minute or two Carless sighed, and taking a watch from his 
fob, regarded it fixedly. 

“In ten minutes we must be away from here,” he said. 
“But before we go, you and I must have a little further 
talk, Burgoyne. Jerry, go you down the lane and keep 
watch. Warn me if there be anything unusual; otherwise 
don’t return until you see me standing in the doorway.” 

Obediently Jerry left the barn, closing the door carefully 
behind him. 

“Now, sir, I have a proposition to make,” said Carless. 
“If you will give me your word of honor to return to 
London with all possible despatch you are free to depart 
at once. ’Tis unlikely that the hue and cry will follow you 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


261 


so far, and even if it did, Crisp would find infinite difficulty 
in persuading the authorities in London to arrest the famous 
Mr. Burgoyne on such representations as he could make. 
Indeed, I doubt very much if he would make the attempt, 
particularly if he were to receive a little present of, say, 
fifty guineas, sent him from an unknown source to console 
him for the loss of his prize.” 

“And if I do not give you my word?” queried Stephen, 
with as much dignity as his ignominious position permitted. 

“Then you will put me to an infernal lot of trouble, 
for I shall be compelled to take you along with me and 
to keep you in hiding willy-nilly.” 

“You would find the task both irksome and difficult, 
I fear,” remarked Stephen, smiling sceptically. 

“Oh, as to that, ’twould be easy to dispose of you when¬ 
ever I thought fit,” retorted Carless nonchalantly. 

“You mean you would murder me?” 

“That is for the future to decide.” 

“Why are you so anxious to keep me out of Crisp’s 
clutches? You surely would not have me believe that your 
motives are entirely unselfish?” The questions were asked 
in Stephen’s most offensive manner, but they had no effect 
upon his companion. 

“Most certainly not,” he returned lightly. “If I have 
conveyed to you that impression I ask your pardon, for it was 
far from my intention to do so. Your safety means my 
safety; that is the case in a nutshell. It has come to my 
ears that someone, doubtless a tool of Sir Randolph Gorst’s, 
has informed Crisp that you and I were seen together short¬ 
ly after the escape. You will recollect my conviction that 
Gorst dare not betray me lest he betray himself. That 
conviction remains unshaken, but it seems to me that if I 
were charged on evidence other than his, then he would be 
safe, for it is unlikely that anybody would pay much atten¬ 
tion to any accusation I might then make against him. On 
the other hand, if you fall into the High Constable’s clutches, 


262 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


it will not be long ere Crisp will be subtly urged to arrest 
me on suspicion, and ’tis my belief that he will not need 
much urging, for there is no love lost between us.” 

“But what could he prove against you?” 

“Little at first, maybe, but it would be many weeks 
before either you or I were brought to trial. In those 
weeks neither Crisp nor Gorst would be idle; and in my 
opinion the information which you would be compelled to 
divulge at your trial, together with such evidence as Crisp 
would by that time possess, would be enough to hang me 
as high as Haman.” 

“Good gad! do you think I would betray you?” cried 
Stephen indignantly. 

“Not I. I know you too well for that. But I know 
those damned lawyers, too. They would harass you and 
question you, set their nasty snares for your feet, until, from 
sheer weariness, you would fall into one of their traps 
and unwittingly speak the word that would pronounce my 
doom.” 

“Never! I am not such a fool as you think me, Ned. 
I am quite prepared to match my wits against the best 
lawyer of them all.” 

Carless shook his head. “You don’t know them as I 
do, Burgoyne. Anyway, I am not prepared to risk it. 

A sudden thought flashed across Stephen’s mind, and he 
gazed at his companion keenly. “If I go to London, Ned, 
what will you do?” he asked slowly. 

“Why, return to my home, of course,” replied Carless, 
looking his surprise at the question. “All danger will be 
past for me.” 

“Are you sure of that?” 

“Certainly I am.” His glance caught the other’s gaze 
and he paused. Then he said: “What’s the matter? 

What is’t you fear?” 

Stephen did not immediately reply. His brain was work- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 263 

ing rapidly, and when at last he spoke his brow was wrinkled 
in deep thought. 

“Before I left my apartment this evening Lady Melton- 
dene called to see me,” he said slowly. 

The dark flush which mantled Carless’s cheeks and the 
peculiar gleam which came into his eyes warned Stephen 
that he had broached a delicate topic. 

“I know it,” said Carless grimly. “She left me outside 
the inn with that object.” 

“Well, ere we parted she let fall some disconcerting in¬ 
formation. She knows that you and I are the men described 
in Crisp’s proclamation.” 

“What! She knows?” cried Carless incredulously. “But 
how can she know?” 

“She was in the coffee-room when we reached the Nag’s 
Head after our escape, and she overheard every word we 
said.” 

Carless whistled. “And a woman’s secret is nobody’s 
secret,” he said. “Hum! This complicates matters. And 
she told you this?” 

“She did.” 

Abruptly Carless’s mood changed again, and he eyed 
Stephen with an ominous frown. “Why did she tell you?” 
he demanded curtly. 

The question disconcerted Stephen, and he hesitated, 
searching for a fitting reply. His hesitation had a strange 
effect on Carless. He sprang to his feet in sudden fury, 
and with eyes blazing and fists clenched, he stood over his 
helpless prisoner in the attitude of a wild animal about to 
spring upon its prey. 

“You are dumb, eh ?” His voice was hoarse with passion, 
and he almost choked over the words. “What is there be¬ 
tween Lady Meltondene and you? Answer me. Quick, 
or by heaven I’ll tear the throat out of you!” 

Stephen met his fierce gaze calmly. “There is nothing 
between us—less than nothing,” he said contemptuously. 


264 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Then why did she seek you?” cried Carless. 

“I have known Lady Meltondene for many years,” re¬ 
plied Stephen haughtily. “As to the precise reason for her 
visit, you had better enquire of her. For the rest, you may 
go to the devil, sir.” 

For an instant it appeared to the prostrate man that his 
captor would fall upon him and rend him to pieces; but 
with the suddenness which was so characteristic of him, 
Carless’s hands dropped to his sides and he seated himself 
again on the upturned pail. He sat in brooding silence for 
perhaps a minute; then he spoke again in his natural voice. 

“Lady Meltondene has told me that you were at one 
time a suitor for her hand,” he said evenly. “Is that cor¬ 
rect?” 

“It is.” Stephen wriggled uncomfortably. “But that 
was, of course, before her marriage.” 

“And now that she is a widow-” 

“She will remain a widow until doomsday if she wait 
for me,” declared Stephen vehemently. 

“Ah! Then you no longer care for her?” opined Carless, 
his face clearing. 

“I do not! If you must know, every particle of love 
that is mine to give is bestowed upon another.” 

“I rejoice to hear it.” There was no mistaking the 
pleasure in his tones. “But what of Lady Meltondene? 
Does she love you?” 

“Bah! Her love is as unstable as water. No man can 
hold it for long, or say with certainty that it is his on two 
consecutive days.” 

“Have a care, Burgoyne! I will not permit anyone to 
disparage her.” 

Stephen eyed him quizzically. “You care for her your¬ 
self, Ned,” he said accusingly. 

“Aye, God help me, I do,” admitted Carless despon¬ 
dently. “It doubtless surprises you that one so unworthy, 
one whom you know for a thief, can lift his eyes so high. 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


265 


But nobody can help love. It just comes, to high and low 
alike, and each and all are powerless to resist it. Oh! 
I know my passion is hopeless, but I am jealous as hell if 
another man so much as looks at her. I love her with my 
whole being, and shall do until I die; I would sell my im¬ 
mortal soul to call her mine for one short hour. I am a 
fool and I know it, but I cannot help it.” 

He buried his head in his hands, and Stephen, his own 
misfortunes forgotten, sought for words wherewith to com¬ 
fort him. 

“You are wrong in thinking that I consider you unworthy 
of her, Ned,” he said softly. “The boot is on the other 
leg. She is not worthy of you.” 

“What!” ejaculated Carless threateningly. “Think 
twice ere you say aught against her.” 

“I repeat that she is not worthy of such a man as you,” 
said Stephen stubbornly. “And I can prove it.” 

“You had better, Burgoyne, and that quickly!” advised 
Carless ominously. 

“ ’Tis not my way to malign a woman, yet in this case 
I have no option. Lady Meltondene came to me today to 
propose a bargain. What she asked is not for me to say, but 
she threatened that if I refused her she would tell Crisp 
all she knew concerning me. Well, I did refuse, and I 
doubt not that, ere now, the High Constable is in full pos¬ 
session of her testimony against me.” 

“The spitfire!” There was more admiration than dis¬ 
gust in Carless’s tone, and Stephen regarded him in won¬ 
derment. “Did she say that she would betray me, too?” 

“No. But I don’t see how she could betray one without 
the other.” 

Carless again looked at his watch, and rose to his feet. 
“ ’Tis time to go,” he said simply. “Are you for London, 
Burgoyne? ’Twill make things much easier for us both if 
you say yes. I ask it for my own sake as much as yours.” 


266 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Very well then. London let it be.” Stephen capitu¬ 
lated with a profound sigh. 

“ ’Tis a wise choice.” Carless took from his pocket a 
clasp knife and cut Stephen’s bonds. Then he strode to 
the door and, opening it, called softly to Jerry, who quickly 
appeared in answer to the summons. “Is the coast clear, 
Jerry?” 

“Aye; there’s not a soul in sight.” 

“Good. Mr. Busgoyne is for London, Jerry. You will 
take him by the route we agreed upon, and don’t leave him 
until he is out of the county.” He turned quickly to 
Stephen. “The precaution is not taken because I doubt you, 
Burgoyne, but merely for your own safety. Jerry knows 
Lancashire like a book, and ’tis not wise for you to use the 
highroad until you are well on your way.” 

“I understand,” said Stephen gravely. 

Jerry led the three horses out of the barn, and he and 
Stephen mounted. 

The latter held out his hand to Carless, who clasped it 
in a close, warm grip. “Good-bye, Burgoyne,” he said. 
“We shall meet again ere long. You may rely upon me to 
send you word as soon as I consider it safe for you to return 
here—for I make no doubt that you will be mighty anxious 
to return,” he added with a smile. 

“Indeed I shall,” confessed Stephen. “Good-bye, Ned. 
Thank you for all you have done for me; I am not as 
ungrateful as I may seem. But stay. What are you going 
to do? Why not come with us? My home is open to 
you for as long as you care to be my honored guest.” 

“No, no, Burgoyne. I am bound elsewhere.” 

“But where?” persisted Stephen, as his impatient horse 
began to move. 

“I go to call on Lady Meltondene!” 

And, with a gay laugh, Carless struck Stephen’s horse a 
resounding blow on the flank with the flat of his hand, 
and, leaping into his own saddle, set out upon his dangerous 
errand. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


IN WHICH THE COLONEL IS FIRST WORRIED, THEN AMUSED, 
AND LAST OF ALL MYSTIFIED 



HE heat was overpowering. At least, so thought 


Colonel Oldfield as he sat in the shade of the sum¬ 
mer-house and mopped his brow with a large silk hand¬ 
kerchief. 

Even the cool, tinkling splash of the little cascade, which, 
fed by recent heavy rains, tumbled over rocks and boulders 
in tumultuous haste to precipitate its waters into the 
Colonel’s ornamental lake, was powerless against the early 
August sun which held sway in the brassy, cloudless sky; 
and the Colonel, after much inward debate and many 
furtive glances in the direction of the arbor, decided that 
on such an afternoon he might fittingly forget his dignity 
for a while and remove his coat. This he did surreptitiously, 
and with as little movement as possible, fearful lest his 
action should bring down wrath upon his head, for the 
Lady Averill was adamant on the matter of “shirt-sleeves.” 

The Colonel grunted with satisfaction as he resumed his 
seat. It was infinitely more comfortable without that con¬ 
founded coat. Weather like this demanded concessions in 
the way of attire, and in any case there was no one to observe 
his breach of the conventions. 

From where he sat the Colonel could see his niece quite 
plainly. She was reclining in a hammock which Sergeant 
Ball had erected for her; and as the Colonel watched her he 
shook his head and sighed. This weather did not agree 
with Averill. She was listless and distrait, far too pale for 


267 


268 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


a healthy woman, and it seemed to him that she was thinner 
than she had been a few months ago. In any case, it was 
certain that her former high spirits had departed, and her 
gay laugh was much less ready than it used to be. 

Yet, as the Colonel revolved the matter in his mind, he 
began to doubt if the weather was altogether to blame for 
Averill’s condition. ’Twas only yesterday that the sun had 
made a welcome reappearance after nearly two weeks of 
grey skies and rain, whereas the change in Averill had been 
apparent for some considerable time. Now he came to 
think about it, ’twas late in the spring when he had first 
noticed something amiss with her; although during the 
fortnight which he had spent with her in London in the early 
part of July she had been gaiety itself, and had flung 
herself into the social whirl with a zest which he, knowing 
her distaste for the town’s hectic pleasures, had noted with 
surprise. 

The Colonel wrinkled his brow and scratched his head. 
Women were, and always had been, a puzzle to him! 
There was no accounting for their moods and whimsies, 
and ’twas no use a man’s interfering. He picked up the 
long clay pipe which lay on the ground beside him and took 
out his tinder-box, but in the act of striking steel to flint 
he paused, and his eyes filled with alarm. Could it be that 
Averill was slowly sinking beneath the spell of some malig¬ 
nant disease of which he knew nothing? By Jupiter! ’twas 
more than probable; in fact, the more he thought on it the 
more certain he became that he had hit upon the only 
possible explanation. 

Thoroughly alarmed, he jumped up from his chair and 
hurried away to where Sergeant Ball, minus coat, waistcoat, 
and cravat, and with his shirt wide open at the throat, was 
busily tying up a rampant creeper to a trellis. 

“Have you nearly finished, Sergeant?” he asked gruffly. 

The Sergeant looked his astonishment. “Why, no, sir; 
I ain’t only just started.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


269 


“Hum! Have you seen Lady Averill today?” 

“Yes, sir. She’s in that there ’ammick as I put up yes¬ 
terday, sir.” 

“I know that, you fool,” snapped the Colonel. “I asked 
if ye’d seen her, not if you know where she is.” 

He took a step forward, and pretended to examine some 
of the Sergeant’s handiwork. Actually he was seeking 
words. He wanted to ask Sergeant Ball’s opinion and 
advice as to Averill, but he wanted to do it without giving 
the Sergeant the satisfaction of knowing that he had ap¬ 
proached him for that particular purpose. 

“It’s very warm, Sergeant,” he said at last. 

“Aye, it is an’ all, sir,” agreed the Sergeant cordially. 

“Trying weather for j^oung folk, don’t ye think?” 

“Don’t know as it’s any more tryin’ for young ’uns than 
it is for old ’uns, sir. Young ’uns, being young, ought to 
stand it best if you ask me, sir.” 

“I didn’t ask you, you dolt,” growled the Colonel irrit¬ 
ably. “If I wanted an opinion as between age and youth, 
I shouldn’t be likely to come to a dunderhead like you for 
it, should I ?” 

“No, sir,” conceded the Sergeant complacently, as he 
tied another knot securely. 

“Very well then. What I meant was that heat like 
this is not altogether good for young women like—like Lady 
Averill, for instance.” 

“Perhaps not, sir.” 

“Perhaps not! Perhaps not! You know it isn’t, you 
idiot! Can’t ye see for yourself how pale, how — how 
damned languid she is?” 

“Aye, I’ve noticed that, sir. But it ain’t the weather, 
sir.” 

“No? Then what is it?” 

“I’m not sure, sir, but I’ll take my davy it ain’t the 
weather. It came long before this ’eat, sir.” 


270 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

“Hum! Then maybe it’s measles or—or small-pox or 
something. ,, 

“No, sir, it ain’t measles nor yet small-pox. If you 
ask me it’s something far worse nor either of ’em,” said the 
Sergeant solemnly. 

“Good gad, Sergeant, what d’you mean?” His ap¬ 
prehension was so great that he seized his companion roughly 
by the shoulder and swung him round. “Out with it, man! 
Tell me what you fear; let me know the worst.” 

“Well, sir, I don’t know as you’ll altogether agree wi’ 
me,” said the Sergeant dubiously. 

“Damn it, man, what does that matter? Speak, for 
heaven’s sake!” 

“Very good, sir. I reckon as it ain’t measles, nor small¬ 
pox, nor yet mumps. Some calls it a fever, others calls it 
madness, but most folks calls it love, sir.” 

The Colonel stared at his henchman in blank astonish¬ 
ment, eyeing him as though he thought he had suddenly 
taken leave of his senses. Then the color of his face 
deepened to a rich purple, his eyes bulged, and his fists be¬ 
came clenched; and the Sergeant prepared himself for 
the storm that he knew was coming by drawing himself 
rigidly up to attention. 

“Tchah!” The Colonel exploded. “Of all the addle- 
pated, wooden-headed numskulls it has ever been my luck to 
meet, commend me to Sergeant Ball! Heaven alone knows 
how you ever rose to non-commissioned rank. You haven’t 
enough common sense for a drummer-boy; by Jupiter! you 
haven’t. Love, indeed! You might as well say she’s 
teething, damme! Love! Tchah!” 

No reply being forthcoming to this outburst, the Colonel 
stamped his foot and glared at the Sergeant fiercely. 

“Well, have you naught to say, you fool?” he demanded. 

“Naught, sir—except to repeat that, if you ask me, Miss 
Averill’s in love,” replied the Sergeant obstinately. 

“Gad! was there ever such a romantic fool?” marvelled 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


271 


the exasperated Colonel. “Who in the name of fortune can 
she be in love with? Don’t you dare tell me that it’s that 
ninny of an Alverford, or, by Jupiter! I’ll knock your 
thick head off.” 

“No, it ain’t his lordship, sir,” said the Sergeant deci¬ 
sively. 

“Surely it can’t be Sir Randolph Gorst.” A note of 
anxiety dominated the anger in the Colonel’s voice. “You 
don’t think it’s Gorst, do you? He’s no fit husband for a 
woman like Averill,” the Colonel added, under his breath. 

“Sir Randolph’s a trier, sir,” opined the Sergeant, with a 
thoughtful frown. “He comes here a lot.” 

“Aye, far too much,” growled the Colonel. “I can’t 
understand why she invites the damn fellow here after his 
disgraceful treatment of that poor devil of a highwayman 
whom he took prisoner.” 

A smile flickered across the Sergeant’s face, but the 
Colonel’s gaze was elsewhere, and he failed to observe it. 

“You’ve no cause to worry, sir,” said the Sergeant. “For 
all his persistence, Sir Randolph ain’t got a twenty to one 
chance.” 

“No?” The Colonel brightened perceptibly. “Well, if 
it isn’t Gorst and it isn’t Alverford, who the deuce can it 
be?” 

The Sergeant’s rigid pose relaxed, and he shuffled his 
feet uneasily and cleared his throat noisily. “I’d rather 
not venture no opinion, sir,” he said, again clearing his 
throat. 

“You’ll do as you’re told, you mutinous dog!” cried the 
Colonel. “Who is it? D’ye hear? Who is it?” 

“It’s—it’s that same highwayman as you spoke of just 
now, sir.” 

The words tumbled out of the Sergeant’s mouth in a 
torrent, and he waited in greater trepidation than usual for 
his master’s wrath, for he considered that never before had 
he ventured so far beyond the bounds of decorum. But to 


272 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


his intense astonishment the Colonel showed no resentment 
whatever. Instead, the light of comprehension slowly dawned 
in his eyes, and suddenly he threw back his head and roared 
with stentorian laughter. 

“By Jupiter! that’s a good one, that is,” he cried, when 
his laughter had subsided to a broad smile. “You’ve hit 
the nail plumb on the head, Sergeant. You’re a deuced 
discerning fellow and a credit to the service.” He laughed 
again. “It serves the minx right, curse me if it doesn’t! 
She would poke her pretty nose into the affair and give 
the fellow food, you’ll remember. And it serves Gorst 
right, too, confound him! Foisted his beastly prisoners on 
to me, instead of taking ’em to gaol straight away, as though 
I were a damn warder. And Averill goes and falls in 
love with one of ’em! Ha! Ha! That’s a good one.” 

“You seem pleased sir,” ventured the Sergeant, scratching 
his head in perplexity. 

“Pleased! Hum! Ah! Well, I don’t know about 
pleased, Sergeant,” ruminated the Colonel. “It’s the humor 

of the thing that strikes me. But pleased-?” The 

Colonel sighed. “It had to come, you know, Sergeant. 
We couldn’t expect to keep Averill with us always, could we 
now?” 

“No, I suppose not, sir,” said the Sergeant despondently. 
“But perhaps it won’t come to anything, sir,” he added, 
brightening a little. 

“Don’t be a fool!” snapped the Colonel. “If Averill 
loves him—why, he’ll love her. There isn’t a man breath¬ 
ing could do otherwise. And love means marriage, and 
marriage means that she’ll leave us.” 

The two men sighed in unison, and regarded each other 
dolefully. 

“But it might be worse, Sergeant.” The Colonel began 
to smile again. “Aye, it might be much worse.” 

“Worse, sir!” cried the Sergeant. “But how could it 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


273 


be worse? You won’t never let Miss Averill marry a 
highwayman, sir, will you?” 

Another stentorian laugh broke from the Colonel’s lips. 
“Highwayman!” he shouted mirthfully. “Where were 
your eyes, man ? Where were your brains ? Wool-gather¬ 
ing as usual, I suppose. Why, any fool could see with 
half an eye that he was no highwayman.” 

“Yes, I know that, sir, but I didn’t know whether you’d 
noticed it, sir,” said the Sergeant naively. 

The Colonel eyed him sharply, but the Sergeant’s expres¬ 
sion was utterly guileless. 

“Hum! So you knew it, did you? Hum! Then you 
know who he really is, too, eh?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The Colonel’s astonishment was patent. “Then who 
is he?” he asked peremptorily. 

“Mr. Burgoyne, sir.” 

“Good! Very good! You’re getting deuced astute, 
Sergeant.” 

Here the Colonel laughed again, and this time the Ser¬ 
geant ventured to laugh with him, so that very soon the 
beautiful, sunlit garden rang with their merriment. 

“Pray may I enquire the reason for all this hilarity?” 

The laughter ceased abruptly, and the two men turned 
guilty eyes to where Averill stood regarding them with 
languid disapproval. 

“Did you not hear my question, uncle?” She stamped 
her foot petulantly. “Why are you making that dreadful 
noise?” 

“ ’Twas nothing, my dear, nothing at all,” replied the 
Colonel, avoiding her eyes. “The Sergeant made a joke; 
that was all, my dear, just a joke.” 

“Indeed! Then I pray you tell me the joke that I 
may laugh too,” she persisted sternly. 

“Well, now, I—er—that is, it’s a confidential joke, d’ye 


274 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

see?” stammered the embarrassed Colonel unconvincingly, 
vigorously mopping his heated brow. . _ 

“A confidential joke is a strange type of joke, methmks, 
she said coldly, regarding the crestfallen pair with unutter¬ 
able scorn. “Do you tell the Colonel many such, Ser- 

geant?” <( 

The Sergeant smiled in sickly fashion. “Yes, miss—I 

mean no, miss, leastways I-” 

“Don’t know what you mean,” Averill finished for him. 
“You need not trouble to find excuses, either of you. But 
let me remind you that the air is still, the garden is quiet, 
and your voices are loud! I will say no more but will 
leave you to ponder over the matter.” 

She had turned to depart; then a look of horror over¬ 
spread her face, and she stared at the uncomfortable Colonel 
incredulously. 

“Uncle! Whatever are you thinking about?” she cried. 
“Where is your coat, sir?” 

“Well, you see, my dear, the heat and-” 

“Rubbish, sir! You know' full well that Sylvia may 
arrive at any moment, and I vow' she would swoon if you 
received her in your shirt-sleeves.” 

“Nay, damme, Averill, she’s not as squeamish as all 
that,” protested the Colonel. “She’s seen me in ’em before, 

hasn’t she? Besides-” 

“Besides what, sir?” 

“She’s coming to stay for a month this time, isn’t she?” 
“You know she is, or more, if I can persuade her.” 
“Well, you don’t mean to say that you’re going to force 
me to wear a coat all the time she’s here in w'eather like 
this?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“But, good gad, Averill, suppose it gets hotter still?” 
“Whether it be hot or cold you will wear a coat,” she 
declared inflexibly. “And when you have resumed your 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 275 

discarded attire and- made yourself presentable, you may 
join me in the arbor. I have something to say to you.” 

She moved away like a queen who has had cause to 
reprimand unruly subjects, leaving behind her two very rue¬ 
ful individuals. 

“By Jupiter, Sergeant! but we’re deuced unpopular,” 
breathed the Colonel, when she was out of earshot. “How 
much d’ye think she’d heard?” 

“The Lord knows, sir!” replied the Sergeant, in accents 
of despair. “Most like all of it, for she came up from 
behind the hedge.” 

“Gad, you’re a Job’s comforter, that you are! Why 
the devil d’you always look on the black side of every¬ 
thing? You’re a cursed melancholy fellow, Sergeant—a 
positive wet blanket.” 

“Can’t help it, sir,” replied the Sergeant stubbornly. 
“It ain’t easy to deceive Miss Averill, sir, as maybe you’ve 
noticed.” 

“Noticed, you idiot? Of course I’ve noticed,” snorted 
the Colonel. “Go and fetch me my coat, and stop talking 
damned nonsense.” 

Colonel Oldfield approached the arbor with the laggard 
footsteps of apprehension. His niece made a delightful 
picture as she sat there awaiting him. The dark green 
framework of rampant foliage which surrounded her threw 
into delicate relief the soft hue of her thin, pale blue gown, 
and made of her uncovered hair a burnished, gleaming mass 
that rivalled the shafts of sunlight which found their way 
through the thick tangle of leaves and branches. Her ex¬ 
pression was pensive and her beauty more ethereal than it 
had been a few months ago, and the Colonel distinctly heard 
her sigh as he came near to her. 

But her expression changed as she caught sight of him, 
and she turned on him a look of stern disapproval. 

“So you have resumed your coat,” she said severely. 
“That is better. But your hair is dishevelled, and your 


276 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


cravat is all awry. Come here, sir, and let me put it 
straight for you.” 

Obediently the Colonel stood whilst she adjusted his neck¬ 
wear to her liking, and then, very gently, he put his arms 
around her and held her close. 

“What ails you, lass?” he whispered tenderly. “You 
are fading away before my very eyes. Won’t you tell me 
what’s the matter? There might be something that even 
an old fool like me can do to help.” 

To his horror, the Colonel saw quick tears spring to the 
lovely eyes into which he gazed, and he sensed the inward 
struggle which Averill fought in her endeavor to control 
them. But control them she did, to his infinite relief. 
Then she took his face between her two hands and kissed 
him once, twice. 

“You dear!” she breathed, with a catch in her voice. 
“I am a sore trial to you, I fear. But because you are the 
most perfect uncle in the whole world, you never think of 
me as such. There is nothing really wrong with me, uncle. 
Of late I have been the victim of a vague discontent, a 
feeling that I lack something and know not what. But it 
will pass. When Sylvia has been here an hour I shall have 
forgotten all about it and be myself again.” 

“Are you sure of that?” There was a twinkle in the 
Colonel’s eye when he asked the question, but luckily for 
him she did not notice it. 

“Of course. Sylvia always does me good, and you will 
have no further cause to worry about me.” 

“Hum! Well, I suppose it will be all right as long as 
that ninny of a viscount doesn’t come dancing attendance 
on Sylvia and taking her away from you.” 

A roguish gleam lighted Averill’s eyes. “That reminds 
me,” she said. “A messenger arrived an hour ago to say 
that Lord Alverford returned from town this morning and 
will call and pay his respects to you tomorrow.” 

“Damn him and his respects!” cried the Colonel. Then 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


277 


he paused, and looked searchingly at his niece. “His 
return seems remarkably opportune—indeed, most suspicious¬ 
ly opportune, madam! You won’t expect me to believe 
that he is unaware that Sylvia comes here today on a visit, 
will you?” 

“Fie, uncle! How can you be so suspicious?” She 
shook a reproving finger at him. “I vow you are becoming 
a positive matchmaker.” 

“Matchmaker! I!” The Colonel choked. “Gad! 
madam, Alverford’ll marry no woman for whom I have any 
regard if I can prevent it. I’ll have him pitched into the 
road if he shows his face here again, d’ye hear? I’ll-” 

“You’ll behave just as I would have you behave,” she 
reproved him. 

“And how is that, madam?” he demanded fiercely. 

“Like the most perfect uncle in the world,” she replied 
sweetly. “You don’t wish Harry to marry me, do you?” 

“By Jupiter! I should think not.” 

“Very well. If he marry Sylvia you will have no further 
cause for worry, dear. And if Sylvia be willing, ’twould 
be absurd for you to interfere.” 

“But he’s such a confounded nincompoop,” grumbled the 
Colonel. 

“As to that, methinks you will change your mind some 
day,” prophesied Averill. 

“Never, my dear!” he declared emphatically. “But let 
that pass. There’s another matter I’d like to mention, 
Averill. It’s none of my business, I know, but I’d like to 
have your assurance on the point.” 

She glanced at him in quick alarm. She had caught 
the words “Mr. Burgoyne” as she had approached her 
uncle and the Sergeant, and she now concluded that it was 
of him that the Colonel was about to speak. 

“You are vastly serious,” she said, with assumed lightness. 
“What is’t you wish to ask?” 

“It’s about Sir Randolph Gorst.” The Colonel’s pre- 



278 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


occupation prevented his noticing the look of relief that 
passed over her face, but he observed the rosy flush that 
followed it. “I don’t like the fellow, Averill.” 

“No?” 

“No. He’s a—a—well, his reputation is distinctly un¬ 
savory, and, although he was popular enough when he first 
came here, every decent house in the county is now closed 
to him. He is not the sort of man for you, Averill.” 

“I know it, uncle,” she agreed calmly. 

“Then why the devil do you encourage the fellow?” 
cried the perplexed Colonel. 

She flushed again. “I have reasons which appear good 
to me, uncle, but I cannot tell you those reasons.” 

“But ’tis foolish, Averill, and it makes folks talk. Besides, 
you are playing with fire,” he warned her. 

“I know that, too, sir, but I think I am clever enough not 
to burn my fingers. And as to folks talking—that is un¬ 
fortunate, but they must go on talking if it please them 
to do so.” 

“You astonish me and perplex me, my dear. Why, 
even Alverford will no longer tolerate the fellow.” 

“ ’Tis due to Harry that the county has cold-shouldered 
him.” She smiled at him. “You didn’t know that, did you, 
sir? Well, I can tell you no more at present. You must 
trust me not to make a fool of myself, uncle, for I have not 
yet finished with Sir Randolph Gorst. But to ease your 
mind, let me tell you that I dislike him intensely. There, 
sir; now go and sort the matter out for yourself.” 

And very meekly the mystified old soldier went. 


CHAPTER XIX 


BRINGS TEARS TO LADY AVERILL AND JOY TO STEPHEN 

4<T DECLARE you are not looking your best, Sylvia,” an- 
nounced Averill decidedly, after steadfastly regarding 
her friend for some time with critical eyes. “I did not 
notice it last evening when you arrived.” 

It was a glorious morning—less oppressive than yesterday, 
but sufficiently warm to be conducive to languor rather than 
energy. The Colonel had gone to pay his usual visit to the 
stables; and Averill and her friend, disinclined to spend 
a moment within doors in such perfect weather, had strolled 
down to the lake, where they had ensconced themselves on 
an old semi-circular stone seat in the shade of some trees. 

“ ’Tis a compliment I can repay with interest,” retorted 
Sylvia somew T hat sharply. “I never saw you look worse, 
Averill. And there is more excuse for me than there is for 
you. I come straight from six weeks in town, whilst 
you have been rusticating in this Adamless Eden for the 
past month.” 

Averiirs head was averted, but the sharp eyes of her 
companion did not fail to note the color which had flooded 
her face. 

“You enjoyed your stay in London, I hope,” said Averill 
hastily. 

“Indeed I did.” Sylvia clasped her hands ecstatically. 
“I had the most wonderful time. Theatres, routs, balls, 
and men—oh! Averill, the men! I vow I never went 
abroad with an escort of less than six. Poor Harry had 

279 


280 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

scarce a look in, and I really believe that another week of 
it had driven him frantic.” 

“Harry! And pray who may Harry be?” 

“Why, Alverford, of course,” replied Sylvia lightly. 

“Oh! And does he call you Sylvia?” queried Averill 
drily. 

“Good gracious, no! He wouldn’t dare anything so 
human.” She shrugged her shoulders in mock despair. 
“He worships me mostly at a distance. When he chances 
to be with me he is dumb as an oyster, except for his pro¬ 
digious and incessant sighing; and if I give him my fan to 
hold or my hand to kiss, he blushes consumedly as a school¬ 
girl, and then grows visibly taller and struts like a veritable 
peacock. But scarce a word does he say. ’Tis vastly an¬ 
noying!” 

“You don’t like his conduct, then?” 

“Heavens above! I am a woman with red blood in my 
veins, not a goddess,” cried Sylvia petulantly. “He gives 
me the adoration and deference due to a queen or a Madonna, 
and I want neither. I vow he irritates me until I feel some¬ 
times that I shall scream.” 

“Yet I think you ought at least to be flattered,” remarked 
Averill rather coldly. “How would you have him behave?” 

“I would have him love me and tell me so. I would 
have him take me in his arms and hold me close and kiss my 
lips; that is how I would have him behave.” 

“Sylvia!” cried the astonished Averill. “What are you 
saying ?” 

“I am telling the truth,” retorted her friend vigorously. 
“Oh, I know that ’tis deemed unmaidenly for a girl to say 
such things. We are supposed to simper and blush and 
cast down our eyes if we see love in a man’s gaze; ’tis con¬ 
sidered proper to swoon if he declare his passion ere he has 
known us at least a year, or before he has told our parents 
how many pounds, shillings, and pence he possesses or is 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 281 

likely to possess when some unfortunate relative convenient¬ 
ly dies!” 

“You love Harry, then?” 

“Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I love him, and why 
shouldn’t I confess it? I am proud of my love and of him 
—not ashamed, like you are.” 

Averill flushed angrily. “What mean you?” she de¬ 
manded sharply. “What concern is it of mine?” 

“You wilfully misunderstand me, Averill,” declared 
Sylvia, unabashed, and meeting her friend’s flashing eyes 
boldly. “I was referring to your love for Mr. Burgoyne, 
not to mine for Harry.” 

“Sylvia! How dare you say such a thing?” cried Averill 
indignantly. 

“Because it is so, and you know it. You cannot deceive 
me, although you try to deceive yourself. And I think 
that is ridiculous. The longer you remain wilfully blind, 
the longer you will be unhappy. For you are unhappy; 
that is patent, even to the Colonel.” 

“I am not unhappy!” cried Averill, stamping her foot. 
“And I think you are horrid, Sylvia.” 

“No doubt you do. People who speak the truth are 
notoriously horrid, Averill. By the way, I saw Mr. Bur¬ 
goyne in London on several occasions.” 

“I am not interested in Mr. Burgoyne,” said Averill 
haughtily. 

“Perhaps not; but I am, and one must talk about some¬ 
thing,” returned Sylvia pertly. “I must confess I thought 
him very charming.” 

“Have you then so soon forgotten his attempt to abduct 
me?” asked Averill frigidly. “And his shameless behavior 
with Lady Meltondene of which you yourself were a 
witness? Charming, you call him. ’Tis a strange kind 
of charm, methinks!” 

Sylvia laughed lightly. “Which is the greater of his 
crimes in your eyes?” she asked slyly. “His attempt to 


282 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


carry you off, or his seeking consolation elsewhere after fail¬ 
ing to do so?” 

Tears of vexation sprang to Averill’s eyes. “Your visit 
to town has not improved you, madam,” she cried angrily. 
“You have left both your manners and your modesty there, 
methinks, and I dislike you intensely. Indeed, I think I 
hate you almost as much as I hate the dreadful man whose 
cause you appear to have espoused. Are you sure that it 
isn’t Mr. Burgoyne whom you love, and not Harry?” 

“I am quite sure, dear,” said Sylvia sweetly. 

“Ah! Perhaps you do not care to enter the lists against 
a rival so redoubtable as Lady Meltondene.” 

A spark of anger leaped in Miss Ravenscourt's eyes, but 
it disappeared as quickly as it came. “ ’Twould be the 
joy of my life to pit myself against such a woman,” she an¬ 
nounced quite sincerely. “But even if I did love Mr. Bur¬ 
goyne I should have no need to fear her!” 

“No?” Averill’s tone was supercilious in the extreme. 
“Why not? Is she then less beautiful, less attractive than 
the charming Miss Ravenscourt ?” 

“Faith, no!” Sylvia laughed gaily. “I can’t hold a 
candle to her for looks, or figure, or aught else. But, you see, 
I chance to know that Mr. Burgoyne has no regard for her 
whatever.” 

“Indeed!” Averill sneered. “You have changed your 
opinion vastly since you went away.” 

“And with good cause. I fear I misjudged him that day 
at the inn. Appearances were strongly against him, but I 
was wrong in taking them at their face value.” 

“He has explained the matter to your satisfaction, then?” 
Averill sneered again. 

“He has done nothing of the sort,” snapped Sylvia. “Not 
a word has passed his lips on the subject. But Harry 
has told me several things which put a different complexion 
on the affair.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


283 


“And what has Harry told you?” This time there was 
curiosity in Averill’s tone and eagerness in her face. 

“I thought you said you were not interested in Mr. Bur- 
goyne,” Sylvia reminded her complacently. “What Harry 
told me was told in confidence, and I cannot repeat it. By 
the way, did you not meet Mr. Burgoyne yourself when 
you were in town?” 

“I did.” Averill was literally boiling with rage. “Twice.” 

“Ah! And what happened?” 

“Naught.” 

“Did he not speak to you?” 

“He did, but he got no reply!” 

“Oh, Averill, how could you use him so?” cried Sylvia 
reproachfully. “I vow he did not merit such treatment. 
You are as cruel as you are obstinate, madam.” 

To Sylvia’s amazement Averill’s lip dropped, and she 
suddenly burst into a storm of tears. All contrition in an 
instant, Sylvia flung her arms around her and pillowed the 
lovely golden head on her shoulder, alternately kissing the 
burnished hair and murmuring words of comfort. At last 
the tears ceased to flow, but Averill did not raise her head 
from its resting-place. 

“Forgive me, Sylvia. I am overwrought,” she murmured. 

“And I ought to have been more careful what I said,” 
said her contrite friend. “My tongue runs away with me 
at times.” 

“Nay, you have naught with which to reproach yourself, 
dear,” protested Averill. “ ’Twas only that your reproof 
reminded me of—of the look in Mr. Burgoyne’s eyes when 
I turned from him without a word. He—he looked like 
a—like a-” 

“Like a dog that has received a blow from a hand it 
loves,” volunteered Sylvia. 

“Yes. That was it. And it made me feel very miserable, 
particularly as-” 

“As what?” queried Sylvia, as she paused. 




284 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“As he had already written to me, and I had torn up the 
letter and sent the pieces back to him.” 

“Averill! How dreadful!” cried Sylvia, in accents of 
horror. “Whatever made you do such a thing?” 

“At the time I thought him presumptuous and insolent 
in daring to write to me. You see, in the letter he begged 
me to grant him an interview, and I thought his request an 
impertinence. But since then I have wondered much if 
mayhap he had something to tell me that would have thrown 
a different light on his former conduct, and I have re¬ 
gretted my uncompromising attitude.” 

“Hum! ’Twas an unwise one to say the least of it,” 
agreed Sylvia. “Have you ever thought that your scorn 
of him might lead him to do something foolish—something 
that both you and he might ever afterwards regret?” 

“Good gracious, no!” Averill was startled, and sat 
upright suddenly. “What do you mean?” 

Miss Ravenscourt stretched out a languid hand and 
plucked a sprig of lad’s love from a bush which grew within 
reach. She held it to her pretty nose and sniffed its 
fragrance several times ere she replied, watching her com¬ 
panion with reflective eyes the while. 

“The Meltondene woman was in town all the time I was 
there,” she said slowly, at last. “I saw her twice shortly 
after I arrived, walking in the Mall with Sir Randolph 
Gorst. But Sir Randolph, I am told, came north again 
shortly after that, and the next time I saw her she was with 
that Mr. Carless whom you pointed out to me when last I 
was here.” She paused, and again sniffed daintily at the 
lad’s love. 

“Well ? Is that all you have to tell me?” queried Averill 
impatiently. 

“No.” Miss Ravenscourt was very deliberate. “Three 
times after that did I see her, and each time she was in the 
company of—Mr. Burgoyne.” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


285 


“Ah!” The lines of Averill’s mouth became hard as 
the tones of her voice. “And what is the inference, pray?” 

“The inference is that, if you are not careful, you may 
drive him into that woman’s arms,” asserted Sylvia calmly. 

“That is a matter of indifference to me,” said Averill 
coldly. 

Sylvia smiled sceptically. “Even so, surely it is incum¬ 
bent upon you to save him from that,” she retorted. “Such 
a marriage could only end in disaster, as you very well 
know.” 

“And what would you have me do? Am I to go and 
offer myself in Lady Meltondene’s stead ?” enquired Averill 
satirically. 

“You might do worse,” said Sylvia drily. “You would, 
methinks, find happiness awaiting you. However, a milder 
course will serve. When next you see Mr. Burgoyne, smile 
upon him. ’Twill do you no harm, but I venture to assert 
that it will rout the fair Barbara for good and all.” 

“And if I frown instead?” 

“Then doubtless Lady Meltondene will triumph. I 
promise you she will not hesitate to use every weapon in 
her armory, and those weapons are by no means few or in¬ 
effective, as you know. And methinks you will have to 
decide the matter at no very distant date. It surprises me 
that Mr. Burgoyne has not returned, and I’ll warrant he 
will not delay much longer.” 

“He dare not return. He would be arrested if he showed 
his face in Bolderburn.” 

“Pooh! ’twill take more than the fear of arrest to deter 
him, an I mistake not.” 

“You forget that he ran away from arrest. Why should 
he be bolder or more foolhardy now?” 

“I don’t believe that he ran away,” declared Sylvia 
obstinately. “ ’Twas something more pressing than fear 
that influenced his departure.” 

“But he had vowed that he would not go.” The words 


286 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


were out before Averill could check them, and she crimsoned 
with chagrin. 

“Ah! He vowed so, did he?” Sylvia regarded her 
friend shrewdly. “To whom did he make that vow, and 
why?” 

“He made it to me, but I cannot tell you why,” replied 
Averill, her face still aflame. 

“I seel” Miss Ravenscourt’s dark curls nodded vigor¬ 
ously. “Well, he will return, if only to explain why he 
broke his word. And I’ll warrant the explanation will be 
satisfactory.” 

“Say rather plausible,” said Averill contemptuously. “Your 
vow-breaker usually hath an excellent excuse for his short¬ 
comings. But he is not generally very convincing. Vows 
are vows, Sylvia, and they should be kept whatever may 
befall.” 

“You are convinced of that?” asked Sylvia slyly. 

“Of course.” 

“Then you would have had him keep all his vow?” pur¬ 
sued Sylvia relentlessly. 

Again Averill colored. “What do you know of his vow?” 
she asked quickly. 

“Nothing, madam. I did but use my woman’s wit to 
bring me to the conclusion that it had a tail to it as well as 
a head. In avoiding my question you very kindly gave me 
a glimpse of the tail; and I venture the opinion that even 
if Mr. Burgoyne has broken half the vow he will keep the 
remainder.” 

“I doubt it,” said Averill, with a superior smile. “He 
will not be allowed to keep it.” 

“Who will prevent him?” 

“I will,” declared Averill emphatically. 

Again Sylvia shook her curls, and she smiled. “ ’Tis 
evident you have not fully gauged the strength of Mr. Bur- 
goyne’s character, dear,” she said tolerantly. She rose, and 
sauntered slowly away towards the water’s edge. “Which 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 287 

only goes to prove the truth of the adage that love is blind/’ 
she flung over her shoulder maliciously as she went—a re¬ 
mark which reduced her friend to a condition of speechless 
rage. 

Almost at this very instant Mr. Burgoyne, after a per¬ 
functory attempt at eating which caused his lackey to shake 
his head despairingly, pushed away his plate and rose from 
the breakfast-table in his handsome apartment in St. James’s. 
He yawned as he did so, for he had been up late last night, 
in addition to which he had slept but little. He strolled 
over to the window which overlooked the street; and as 
he gazed out idly upon the sunlit world a glad cry suddenly 
escaped his lips, and turning, he dashed pell-mell out of 
the room and across the hall to where a footman was open¬ 
ing the door to admit a tall, fashionably-attired gentleman. 

“Ned! Upon my soul, I am delighted to see you,” cried 
Stephen, thrusting the footman aside and taking the new¬ 
comer’s outstretched hand in both of his. “You are wel¬ 
come indeed! Come into the library; ’tis cool in there. 
What brings you to London?” he continued, when his visi¬ 
tor was comfortably settled in a big armchair. 

“A woman,” replied Ned Carless succinctly, with a 
laugh. “A very charming woman, Burgoyne, but a very 
difficult one.” 

“Do I know her?” 

“Aye, you know her only too well,” he said drily. “I 
came up to London, for the second time within a month, 
in the hope of finding Lady Meltondene.” 

“Indeed!” Stephen looked surprised. “Methinks the 
last time you were with me you left me for a similar pur¬ 
pose.” 

“So I did. And on that occasion I found her, too. She 
was not at her home when I enquired there, so drawing a 
bow at a venture, I went straight to your room at the Nag’s 
Head.” 


288 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“’Fore gad! ’twas an audacious thing to do,” cried 
Stephen, aghast. “You took a very grave risk, Ned.” 

“Yes, ’twas a risk. But I have told you before that the 
boldest course is often the wisest, and I reasoned that Lady 
Meltondene had no cause whatever to betray me as she had 
threatened to betray you. Also, I thought it possible that 
my advent in person would banish any such inclination that 
she might have; and events proved me right.” 

“She was still in my room when you got there, then?” 

“She was. And with her were Gorst and Crisp, whilst 
there were a number of men concealed in and about the 
premises in readiness for your return.” 

Stephen whistled. “ ’Twas a narrow shave for me, me- 
thinks,” he mused. 

“I warrant you’ll never have a narrower, Burgoyne. 
My arrival disconcerted them all; and when I asserted that 
I intended to await your return, Crisp abruptly ordered me 
to get out, alleging that they were there on matters of state 
and could not tolerate outside interference. I saw no ob¬ 
ject in making a fuss—for I already possessed the informa¬ 
tion I had sought—and I turned to go, but as I did so I saw 
Gorst whisper eagerly to Lady Meltondene. With a quick 
nod of comprehension, she rose, and, calling me, requested 
my escort as far as her dwelling.” 

“That was to prevent you from attempting to warn me, 
I suppose,” hazarded Stephen. 

“Exactly. And, once we were in the saddle, Lady Mel¬ 
tondene bluntly told me so. She. also told me that she 
knew all about my complicity in the affair, and she hinted 
that unless I did as she wished she would be compelled to use 
her knowledge.” 

“And what did you say?” 

Carless rubbed his chin. “I said nothing,” he replied. 

“And is that all?” asked the disappointed Stephen. 

“Not quite.” Carless smiled reminiscently. “By this 
time we had left the village behind us, and there was no- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 289 

body in sight. So, instead of saying anything, I seized 
her round the waist and—kissed her!” 

“You kissed her!” echoed Stephen, astounded. 

“I kissed her,” repeated Carless firmly. “Why not? 
Was she not made to be kissed? Besides, she is a woman, 
and with most women a kiss is a thousand times more 
effective than all the arguments and protestations in the 
world.” 

“Hum! Perhaps so,” said Stephen dubiously. “And 
she?” 

“Oh she was mighty indignant, of course. In fact, she 
lashed me across the cheek with her whip, but I only laughed 
at her. Then she galloped ahead of me down the road 
in high dudgeon, and I must needs put spurs to my horse to 
catch her.” Carless glanced at Stephen out of the corners 
of his twinkling eyes. “After hearing which, you will 
probably not believe me when I tell you that when I helped 
her to dismount at her door she returned my kiss of her own 
accord.” 

“Tore gad, Ned! you amaze me,” marvelled Stephen. 
Then he smiled; but, before he could speak, Carless turned 
on him fiercely and said: 

“That smile tells me what you are going to say, Bur- 
goyne, and I advise you not to say it. No man speaks 
lightly of Barbara Meltondene in my presence, remember. 
For, notwithstanding all that I told you on a former occas¬ 
ion, hope has been born in me that some day I shall call her 
wife.” 

“Do you mean to say that she has-” 

“No.” Carless anticipated him. “She would laugh the 
idea to scorn were it broached to her. And I can tell you 
no more, lest you think me a superstitious fool.” 

“Hum! I understand that she has left town.” 

“So I am informed,” said Carless, rather despondently. 
“My journey is therefore fruitless, and I am returning forth¬ 
with, for I am hoping to find that she has gone north again.” 



290 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“As I should like to do,” sighed Stephen. “When are 
you going to release me from my parole, Ned ?” 

“It was for that very purpose I sought you. I have good 
reason to believe that I am no longer in any danger of arrest 
as your accomplice, and, so far as I am concerned, you are 
free to return to Bolderburn when you please. But 
I must warn you that you will take a very grave risk if you 
do so. Lancashire is still an unhealthy county for you. 
Gorst is back again in the district, dancing attendance on 
Lady Averill Stapleton; and, although I know that Crisp 
is inclined to let the affair sink into oblivion, Sir Randolph 
will never let him rest once he knows that you have re¬ 
turned. I should think twice about it if I were you, Bur- 
goyne.” 

“Once is enough, Ned,” cried Stephen gaily. “When do 
you set out?” 

“Tomorrow morning at seven o’ the clock.” 

“Then if you will have me, I will ride with you. ’Twill 
be a pleasant journey.” 

“Say rather that it will start pleasantly. It may end 
in vastly different fashion.” 

“Well, we must leave that to chance.*’ 

“Chance is a sorry jester, remember.” 

“So she is, Ned, but her jests are not always unkind.” 


CHAPTER XX 


TELLS HOW LADY AVERILL OUTWITTED SIR RANDOLPH GORST 

A CORDIAL welcome awaited Stephen when, shortly 
after parting company with Carless at the point where 
the roads to Worpleden and Bolderburn diverged, his long 
ride from London terminated at the Nag’s Head Inn. The 
delight of Tom Hindle and his wife was made manifest not 
only by the warmth of their greeting, but by the quantity and 
variety of the choice viands which they set before him when 
he sat down to table. Even the taciturn Jack showed pleas¬ 
ure at his coming; and after he had groomed and fed 
Stephen’s horse with even more than his customary care, 
he diffidently entered the room in which the new arrival 
was manfully attempting to cope with the landlord’s prodig¬ 
ality, and actually made a speech of three consecutive sen¬ 
tences—a circumstance which so surprised his father that a 
bottle of very choice wine slipped from his fingers and shat¬ 
tered itself to dripping fragments on the stone floor. 

“Glad to see you again, sir,” said Jack, taking a deep 
breath. “Real glad, I am. Never was gladder to see any 
man.” 

“You are all very kind to me,” said Stephen, flushing 
with pleasure. “I am just as glad as you are, Jack. I 
should have come back long ago had I been permitted.” 

“Happen you’ll be staying a bit longer this time, sir,” 
ventured the landlord diffidently. 

“That depends on circumstances, Tom,” responded 
Stephen evasively. 

“And on Crisp!” interjected Jack succinctly. 

291 


292 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

Stephen laughed. “What makes you think that, Jack?” 
he asked. 

“Can see as far through a brick wall as most folk,” de¬ 
clared Jack drily. 

“I believe you can! Well, you are not far off the mark. 
My arrival may stir up a hornet’s nest, so I have no time 
to waste. Do you know if Lord Alverford is in the dis¬ 
trict? He left London before I did, and he should be here 
by now.” 

“Saw him yesterday,” said Jack. 

“Then will you take a note over to his house for me, 
and bring me back an answer? I want to see him as soon 
as possible.” 

Jack shook his head. “Won’t be at home, sir,” he said 
confidently. 

“Why? He surely hasn’t gone away again!” cried Stephen, 
in dismay. 

“No, sir. Still here.” 

“Then if he be not at home, where is he?” 

“Colonel Oldfield’s, sir,” said Jack solemnly, but with 
his shrewd eyes a-twinkle. 

An answering twinkle appeared in Stephen’s eyes. “I 
quite understand, Jack,” he said. “Take the note there, 
but give it into Lord Alverford’s own hands if possible.” 

The note despatched, Stephen finished his meal and then 
went to his old room to await Jack Hindle’s return. And 
while he waited he pondered over the difficulties and dangers 
which beset him. 

His immediate concern was not the checkmating of Sir 
Randolph Gorst’s conspiracy against him. Judging by what 
Carless had told him in London, that would be no easy 
matter, but he regarded it, for the time being at least, as a 
secondary consideration. He had come back to Lancashire 
to win Averill Stapleton’s love. To most men similarly 
situated, the task he had set himself would have seemed so 
utterly impossible of accomplishment that it would never 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


293 


have been essayed, but Stephen was not to be deterred by 
difficulties, however appalling they might appear. As long 
as Averill remained unbetrothed, he would leave no stone 
unturned in his efforts to redeem the remnants of his vow; 
and if, before the High Constable took action, he could 
persuade her to utter the words which he longed to hear, 
he thought he saw his way clear to remain free to wed her 
and at the same time to render His enemies impotent to harm 
him. 

Arrived at this point, he shook his head dolefully. Had 
ever man before him risked his neck on a chance so slender ? 
The only sign of friendliness, let alone love, that Averill 
had ever shown him was on that day when he lay a prisoner 
in her uncle’s stables. And she had only been kind to him 
then because she pitied him. From the moment when she 
discovered his true identity she had treated him with scorn 
and contempt; and her attitude towards him during her 
recent visit to town was uncompromising in the extreme! 
Yet he recollected that she had once thought fit to warn 
him, through Sergeant Ball, of the peril which was then 
imminent, and his drooping spirits revived as he reviewed 
in his mind the possible motives for her so doing. 

But his train of thought was abruptly banished by the 
precipitate entry of Lord Alverford. The viscount rushed 
into the room like a boisterous but jovial breeze, and seizing 
his protesting friend by the shoulders, he whirled him willy- 
nilly round the room. 

“Ya’ve done it, Steve; ’pon my soul and honor, ya have!” 
he cried ecstatically. “Burn me and blister me if she hasn’t 
relented!” 

“Relented! Who has relented?” asked Stephen eagerly, 
his pulses leaping to the thrill of sudden hope. 

“Why, Averill, of course,” replied Harry impatiently. 
“Whom did ya think I meant? And most confounded 
gracious she was about it, too, b’gad!” 


294 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Pull yourself together, Harry, and explain things prop¬ 
erly,” cried Stephen irritably. 

“Gad! ya’re doocid peevish, Steve,” protested Harry. 
“Jack Hindle brought me ya note, and said he wanted an 
answer. And, damme, he refused to go until he got one! 
So, after a futile attempt to get rid of the obstinate fellow, 
I went out into the garden and found Sylvia.” 

“That wouldn’t take you long, I’ll wager,” smiled 
Stephen. 

“Well, no, not very,” admitted Harry, blushing guiltily. 
“I showed her ya’ note, and straightway she went to where 
Averill sat and asked her point-blank if she’d receive ya if 
ya called upon her. Averill looked most confounded em¬ 
barrassed, and for a moment I thought she was going to 
refuse; then she smiled, and, turning to me, she said in a 
voice as sweet as honey ‘Ya may bring ya’ friend to see me 
tomorrow afternoon at three.’ ” 

Undisguised delight illumined Stephen’s face, and he 
seized his friend’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Gad, 
Harry! you are an ambassador in a thousand,” he cried. 
“I owe you much for this.” 

“Nay, pink me and perish me, ’twas Sylvia did it, not 
I,” protested Harry. “She is the cleverest, most re¬ 
mark-” 

“Yes, yes, I know.” Stephen hurriedly cut him short. 
“And she deserves all your praise.” He eyed his friend 
quizzically. “Tell me, Harry, why are you so overjoyed 
that Lady Averill has consented to see me?” 

“Well, ya know, ya’re my greatest friend, and natur¬ 
ally-” commenced Harry ponderously. 

“Naturally you are pleased,” finished Stephen for him. 
“I do not doubt that for a moment, Harry, but it seems a 
trifling matter to have caused you to behave as deliriously 
as you did just now. Is it only for my sake that you 
rejoice?” 

The embarrassed viscount blushed again as he turned 




CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


295 


petulantly away. “ ’Tis most cursed ungrateful in you to 
ask such a question, b’jove!” he complained indignantly. 
“But if ya must know, I have some small interest in the 
matter apart from you. Ya see, I know how ya feel about 
Averill, and if ya were to step in and win her, my mother 
couldn’t grumble at me any more for not marrying her 
myself, now could she?” 

“Not very well,” conceded Stephen solemnly. 

“Well, then, she couldn’t say anything if I—er—if I 
married Sylvia instead, could she?” pursued Harry some¬ 
what anxiously. 

“I am not so sure of that,” replied Stephen dubiously. 
“But she would doubtless be more likely to view the matter 
tolerantly.” 

“That’s what I think,” said Harry, in gratified tones. 
“She is bound to take to Sylvia once she knows her properly; 
that stands to reason, doesn’t it, b’jove?” 

But Stephen did not commit himself on this moot point. 
He had grave doubts as to whether Lady Alverford would 
approve for her son any match which she herself had not 
made. So he dexterously changed the subject; and at 
length Harry was obliged to depart with his qualms still 
unallayed. 

On the following day precisely at three o’clock the two 
friends entered Colonel Oldfield’s ivy-clad portals, and to 
Stephen’s surprise and gratification they were met by Ser¬ 
geant Ball and shown into the garden, where Averill and 
Miss Ravenscourt sat in the shade of some trees waiting to 
receive them. There is something delightfully informal 
about being received in a garden. It suggests an intimacy 
which is seldom felt within doors; and Stephen thrilled to 
this unexpected mark of Averill’s favor. He also noticed 
that the Colonel was nowhere to be seen—a fact which 
made his peculiar position distinctly less uncomfortable. 

“You are welcome, Mr. Burgoyne,” said Averill gracious¬ 
ly, flushing a little as he bent over the hand she held out 


296 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


to him. “You have already met Miss Ravenscourt, I think. 
Would you care to drink tea with us? I know that most 
of you men profess to dislike it intensely, yet I vow that 
I believe you secretly love it as much as we do.” 

Gratefully he took the proffered cup and saucer. She 
had contrived to put him at his ease immediately, and she 
proceeded to play the hostess with a grace and charm that 
showed not the faintest trace of embarrassment. .From 
her manner, anyone might have supposed that Stephen was a 
frequent and welcome guest, and he marvelled exultantly at 
the contradictions of mood of which her sex is capable. 

Presently Sylvia rose from her chair and called Harry’s 
attention to a flower-bed which blazed in blue and crimson 
glory a few yards away from where they sat. This gave 
Stephen the opportunity he sought, and without hesitation 
he seized it. 

“Lady Averill, I trust you will not think that I have 
unwarrantably thrust myself upon you,” he said earnestly, 
leaning towards her and speaking in an undertone. “I 
have much to say to you, and I humbly beg that you will 
not refuse to hear me. I tried to find the means of saying 
it when you were in town, but I was not fortunate.” 

Averill colored again. “London does not agree with 
me,” she said, with assumed lightness. “It makes my head 
ache and adversely affects my temper. That must be my 
excuse for my rudeness to you there, sir.” 

“I deserved all I got, madam. After all that had hap¬ 
pened, I had no right whatever to approach you either in 
person or by letter. But I-” 

He stopped abruptly. Averill’s attitude had suddenly 
become tense, and her eyes, incredulous and cold, were 
staring past him. Perplexed, he turned his head in the 
direction of her gaze, and to his amazement he saw Ser¬ 
geant Ball approaching, followed closely by Lady Melton- 
dene! Sylvia had also observed the approach of the un- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


297 


welcome visitor, and with a word to Harry she moved 
quickly to Averill’s side and there stood in rigid hauteur. 

But Barbara did not appear to notice the frigid hostility 
of the circle into which she stepped. Her face was pale 
as death and her eyes tragic with fear, whilst the hand with 
which she thrust the Sergeant to one side ere he could 
announce her to his mistress trembled like an aspen leaf. 

“Forgive this intrusion, Averill,” she cried tremulously, 
holding out imploring hands. “I know that I am not 
welcome here, and Sergeant Ball did everything in his 
power to prevent my gaining admission to your presence. 
But I insisted upon seeing you—not for my own sake, but 
for-” 

She faltered, and pressed her bosom with both hands as 
though to still its tempestuous heaving. She glanced ap¬ 
pealingly from one to another of the four faces around 
her, but, although she saw compassion in Harry’s and dis¬ 
comfort in Stephen’s, those of the two women were cold and 
hard as marble. 

“Yes? For what, madam?” Averill reminded her, in 
clear, incisive tones. 

“Because—because I bring news—imperative news!” she 
replied desperately. “The High Constable is, at this very 
moment, on his way here with a dozen or more men to 
arrest Mr. Burgoyne!” 

If Barbara had intended to spread confusion and dismay 
around her, she certainly succeeded. Averill jumped to 
her feet in alarm, Sylvia caught her breath and gazed at her 
with eyes of dread, whilst Alverford involuntarily sprang 
in front of Stephen as if to hide him from the view of those 
who came to seek him. 

Of them all, Stephen was the one who seemed least 
disturbed by the dramatic announcement. Not a movement 
did he make; but a grim little smile played about his mouth, 
and his keen eyes scanned Lady Meltondene’s face until she 



298 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


quailed beneath their gaze. Suddenly he turned to Averill, 
but before he could speak she held up an imperious hand. 

“Mr. Crisp would never dare to violate my uncle’s privacy 
so,” she cried. “You have surely been misinformed, madam. 
Know you not that Colonel Oldfield is a justice of the 
peace?” 

“I neither know nor care what he is!” Barbara shook 
her head despairingly. “But I know that unless Mr. Bur- 
goyne leaves here immediately nothing can save him. ’Tis 
no time for-” 

She broke off suddenly. The sound of voices raised in 
altercation had become plainly audible; and Stephen, glanc¬ 
ing sharply round him, caught sight of two or three figures 
lurking in distant parts of the garden. 

“She has told the truth, Harry,” he whispered in his 
friend’s ear. “See yonder; we are surrounded. Crisp is 
taking no chances this time, and I fear me that the game is 
up” 

It was now possible to distinguish between the raised 
voices of those who were evidently approaching from the 
direction of the house by a path which was concealed by a 
high privet hedge. Colonel Oldfield’s words came clear and 
distinct. He was angrily disputing the passage of others, 
but it was obvious that his efforts were of no avail, for the 
sounds came steadily nearer. 

“By Jupiter! but you shall smart for this, sir!” cried the 
Colonel, in an extremity of wrath. “You shall discover 
whether or no you can force your way into a man’s house 
with impunity, you damn pirate! Don’t forget that I am 
a justice, and I’ll have you hounded from office if I spend 
the remainder of my life at the task.” 

“Come, come, Colonel; Mr. Crisp’s duty is unpleasant, 
but what choice has he?” came in soothing accents from 
someone else. 

“Who the devil asked for your opinion, Gorst?” roared 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 299 

the Colonel. “Might I enquire what you are doing here, 
anyway?” 

“I came to call on Lady Averill. My visit chanced to 
coincide with Crisp's, that is all,” replied Sir Randolph 
smoothly. 

“What a tale!” snorted the Colonel. “D’ye expect me 
to believe-” 

But at this moment the oncoming party came into view 
of those who waited, and the High Constable, disconcerted 
by their numbers, hesitated. But Kellett, his lieutenant, 
who with another of his men walked just behind him, urged 
him on, and he had no choice but to go forward, which he 
did with as much dignity as he could command. 

“Your pardon, ladies,” he said, sweeping off his hat with 
a flourish and bowing low. “I have a painful duty to per¬ 
form.” 

He gave a signal to his men, who ran forward and each, 
laid a hand on Stephen’s shoulders. Then he turned to his> 
prisoner and said pompously: 

“Stephen Burgoyne, I arrest you in the name of the 
King for attempted abduction and highway robbery com¬ 
mitted within the hundred of-” 

“That’s all right, Mr. Crisp,” Stephen interrupted him 
quietly. “A speech is quite unnecessary. I am ready to 
go with you.” 

“Hum! Ha! You understand that-” 

“I understand everything. And I beg of you to carry¬ 
out your duty with what despatch you may.” 

“Very good. If you will give me your word not to 
attempt to escape, we can depart at once,” said Mr. Crisp, 
surprised and gratified by the other’s docile acquiescence. 

“You have it,” said Stephen promptly. 

“Take care, Crisp!” interposed Sir Randolph warningly. 
“Remember what happened last time.” 

Before Mr. Crisp could reply Averill turned on Gorst 




300 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


like a fury. “What concern is this of yours, may I ask, 
Sir Randolph ?” she cried imperatively. 

“None whatever, madam,” he replied deprecatingly. “I 
merely thought it well to remind Mr. Crisp that he is deal¬ 
ing with a slippery customer.” 

“And have you no other interest in the matter?” she asked 
sharply. 

“None at all. What interest could I have beyond that of 
a law-abiding citizen?” he returned unctuously. 

“You swear to that?” 

“I do, madam.” 

“So!” Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she turned 
quickly to the High Constable, who was already moving 
away. “One moment, Mr. Crisp. Tell me; who laid 
this charge against Mr. Burgoyne?” 

“No charge was necessary, your ladyship,” explained Mr. 
Crisp, fawning obsequiously. “I was present myself when 
the prisoner held up your carriage.” 

“You were lying in ambush expecting the crime to be 
committed, were you not?” 

“Yes, your ladyship.” 

“And who gave you the information which induced you 
to act?” 

“I—I cannot answer that question for you, madam,” 
he replied, decidedly uneasy under this swift and unexpected 
cross-examination. 

“Then answer it for me!” commanded Colonel Oldfield 
sternly. “I speak as a justice of the peace, Crisp. Who 
gave you the information?” 

The High Constable was in a dilemma. He had to 
choose between one who was his patron and another whose 
influence in the county he feared exceedingly. But he did 
not hesitate long. Whatever happened now, he could 
expect no further favors from Gorst, whilst Colonel Old¬ 
field had the power to strengthen materially his distinctly 
precarious hold upon his lucrative office. So, as self-interest 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 301 

was the most potent argument that Mr. Crisp knew, he 
answered: 

“Sir Randolph Gorst.” 

“Ah!” The Colonel’s expression was grim, and he 
breathed heavily. “Proceed, Averill,” he said. 

“ ’Tis as I thought,” she commented, with a disdainful 
shrug of her shoulders. She paused and looked slowly 
round the assembled company; then she fixed calm, steady 
eyes on the High Constable. “You have been misled, Mr. 
Crisp,” she said deliberately. “Mr. Burgoyne is innocent 
of any offence against the law.” 

Mr. Crisp smiled incredulously. “But, your ladyship, 
I saw this with my own-” he began. 

She stopped him with a gesture. “I repeat that you 
were misled, sir,” she said emphatically. “The thing which 
naturally appeared to you to be a crime was simply a frolic 
—a frolic instigated by me!” 

“By you!” The ejaculation came from the Colonel as 
well as from Mr. Crisp. 

“By me,” she repeated firmly. She took a quick step 
forward towards the Colonel, and gazed at him with appeal¬ 
ing eyes. “You will forgive me, uncle, I know,” she said 
pleadingly. “ ’Twas my foolish whim to play a prank on 
you, and to that end I called Lord Alverford to my aid. 
He was reluctant, but I bade him waylay us on our return 
from Warley Dale, hold up the carriage, and carry me off 
to the Gables.” 

“But why, i’ gad’s name, did you do that?” asked the 
astounded Colonel. 

“To punish you, sir,” she said pertly. “ ’Tis long ago, 
uncle, and you will have forgotten, but you had been very 
rude to me over a certain matter, and I was determined to 
cry you quits. And this was my method of doing it. Harry 
asked my permission to enlist the services of two of his 
friends, of whom Mr. Burgoyne—at that time a stranger 


302 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


to me—was one. This I granted, never dreaming what 
dire consequences my folly might have.” 

“And why did you not tell us this months ago?” 

“Because my courage failed me; and afterwards when 
the captives had escaped, it seemed to me that confession 
was unnecessary.” 

The High Constable was plainly nonplussed. The situa¬ 
tion was entirely outside his somewhat limited experience. 
If Lady Averill spoke the truth—and he would never have 
dared to doubt her—then it was plain that did he arrest 
Burgoyne he had no alternative but to arrest Lord Alver- 
ford as well—a thing unthinkable! To arraign the vis¬ 
count—notorious for his wealth, his indolence, and his 
vapidity—for highway robbery would be to make himself 
the laughing-stock of the county and to bring down the 
wrath of his masters, the justices of the peace, upon his 
head! Yet if he abandoned the object of his errand his 
dignity must suffer, and he would look foolish in the eyes 
of his subordinates. 

His indecision did not pass unnoticed. Gorst, who saw 
all his carefully-laid plans being rendered futile, was watch¬ 
ing him narrowly, and the baronet had no intention of allow¬ 
ing him to abandon his task on the bare testimony of one 
woman. So, in the careless tones of one who is merely an 
interested spectator, he remarked: 

“Your surprising announcement places our friend Mr. 
Crisp in a delicate and difficult position, Lady Averill. He 
cannot doubt your word, of course, but at the same time 
you must remember that, as an officer of the law, he must 
perforce view the matter from a different standpoint from 
yours. In his eyes the act you call a frolic was a felony, and 
he is in duty bound to treat it as such until the evidence has 
been sifted.” 

Averill’s lips curled. “You mean that he cannot accept 
my unsupported word,” she said contemptuously. “Very 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 303 

well. Lord Alverford can corroborate what I say. Ask 
him.” 

If Gorst expected Harry to show any trace of confusion 
in being thus called upon he was disappointed. The vis¬ 
count had the moral support of Miss Sylvia Ravenscourt— 
a circumstance which would have emboldened him to flout 
the cleverest lawyer in the land. 

“ ’Tis doocid discourteous in ya to attempt to discredit 
Lady Averill, Gorst,” he chided the baronet serenely. “If 
Crisp wants corroboration, I’ll give it him, b’jove! But it 
seems to me that there’s no necessity.” 

“I agree, your lordship,” said Mr. Crisp deferentially. 
“If your lordship and Lady Averill both say that it was 
a jest, there the matter ends.” 

“Well, we do,” declared Harry, in complacent tones. 
“ ’Twas a jest and nothing more.” 

“Very good, your lordship.” Mr. Crisp bowed. “I 

will-” 

“Wait!” 

The command came from Sir Randolph, and it was so im¬ 
perative that the High Constable paused. Gorst had been 
thinking rapidly. He knew—or thought he knew—that 
Averill was lying, and he imagined that he possessed the 
means whereby he might yet save his plans from shipwreck. 

“Before you depart, Crisp, I think you ought to clear 
up this matter completely,” he said suavely. “ ’Twould 
secure Mr. Burgoyne against any possibility of further un¬ 
pleasantness. For instance, there was a third man men¬ 
tioned as being a party to the affair, but his name was not 
given. Would it not be as well to know it?” 

“Perhaps it would,” admitted Mr. Crisp grudgingly, 
none too pleased that Gorst had thought fit to remind him 
of his duty. 

Here Barbara Meltondene plucked Sir Randolph’s sleeve 
sharply. “Have a care!” she whispered urgently. “You 
are on dangerous ground.” 


304 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


But before he could reply Averill had turned to him again. 
“Do you really wish me to divulge the third man’s name, 
Sir Randolph?” she asked, her eyes flashing ominously. 

Gorst shrugged his shoulders. “His name means naught 
to me, madam,” he disclaimed. “I spoke for Mr. Bur- 
goyne’s sake.” 

“Your altruism becomes you, sir!” she said scathingly. 
“Doubtless Mr. Burgoyne is duly grateful. So, as you 
desire Mr. Crisp to hear the name of Lord Alverford’s 
other accomplice, hear it he shall. His name is—Sir Ran¬ 
dolph Gorst!” 

This was the very last thing that Gorst had expected. 
Obsessed by his schemes, it had not occurred to him that 
Averill might be in full possession of the true facts regarding 
the waylaying of Colonel Oldfield’s carriage, and even had 
it done so, he would have dismissed the idea as impossible. 
For, like many another clever schemer before him, he had 
failed to gauge correctly the workings of a woman’s mind. 
On that day when, after his disastrous encounter with 
Stephen, he had awakened to consciousness to find Averill 
ministering to him, his instinctive suspicion that she might 
have overheard the conversation which preceded the conflict 
was promptly and completely banished from his mind. Her 
solicitous manner, and her apparently artless remarks and 
questions, had led him to conclude that she had found him 
after Stephen had left him; and neither by word nor look 
did she hint of her knowledge of his duplicity. Even now, 
when that knowledge was revealed to him in a manner so 
disconcerting, he could not conceive how she had come 
by it, and he was more than half inclined to regard it as 
guesswork. 

Not for an instant did he lose his self-possession. He 
smiled indulgently at Averill, and said quietly: “Prepos¬ 
terous, madam! Have you forgotten that the third man 
was taken prisoner along with Mr. Burgoyne, whilst I, solely 
for the sake of the adventure, was with Crisp’s party?” 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


305 


“I have forgotten nothing!” she declared vehemently. 
“I have not forgotten that you hailed Lord Alverford’s 
proposal with enthusiasm, and agreed to join him. Nor 
have I forgotten that you hired another to take your place, 
nor that you made haste to betray both your friends and 
your deputy to the High Constable. To serve your own 
base purposes you deliberately tried to turn innocent comedy 
into grim tragedy; and you may rest assured that I shall 
never forget that as long as I live!” 

Quivering with angry mortification though he was, Gorst’s 
effrontery was still such that he would have made an attempt 
to justify himself had not Colonel Oldfield intervened. 

“This has gone far enough,” said the latter sternly. “Are 
you satisfied, Crisp?” 

“Perfectly, sir, perfectly,” said Crisp effusively. 

“May Mr. Burgoyne take it that he will be entirely free 
from further molestation?” 

“Certainly he may. I apologize most humbly to him for 
such trouble and inconvenience as I may have caused him, 
but I beg him to remember that I acted in good faith. 
I was grossly deceived by Sir Randolph Gorst, very grossly 
deceived; and I am scarcely to blame for what has hap¬ 
pened.” He bowed ceremoniously to the company at large. 
“Permit me to bid you good day, ladies and gentlemen all. 
And as for you, Sir Randolph, let me warn you against 
further attempts to make the law serve your own ends. 
The next time you may burn your fingers.” 

He waved a pompous hand to his men, and made a digni¬ 
fied exit which, in the circumstances, did him infinite credit. 

Promptly the Colonel turned to Gorst. “You’ll oblige 
me by following in the wake of your ally, sir,” he said 
curtly. 

“But, Colonel, I-” 

“Enough, sir!” The Colonel’s tones were peremptory, 
and brooked no argument. “Your presence is an affront to 
everyone here. Begone!” 


306 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“And please take your friend Lady Meltondene with 
you, sir,” chimed in Averill sweetly. “See, her disappoint¬ 
ment has so wrought on her that she is pale as death, and 
I fear she will swoon unless you give her your arm.” 

Wrath blazed in Barbara’s eyes and cheeks. “Do you 
make a practice of insulting your guests, madam?” she cried. 

“No, madam,” replied Averill, in honeyed accents. “My 
guests are invariably treated with courtesy. But perhaps 
you will recollect that you came here uninvited and un¬ 
welcomed. Your ruse to be present at Mr. Burgoyne’s 
arrest was clever, and I congratulate you on it. I admit 
that you deceived me, but not for long. Your acting was 
magnificent at first; but later, when you thought yourself 
unobserved, you forgot your part. Good day to you, 
madam!” . 


CHAPTER XXI 


TELLS OF GRIM HAPPENINGS IN GREYPOOL WOOD 

I T was very evident that Stephen’s mood was not in keep¬ 
ing with the day. Never was morning more perfect or 
countryside more beautiful. The sauciest little breeze that 
ever caressed maiden’s cheek, laughed roguishly at the tall 
stateliness of the golden, poppy-sprinkled corn, and made it 
bow spasmodically to her capricious will. Invisible larks, 
tempted by the radiant loveliness of dying summer to raise 
themselves on tiny wings to incredibly dizzy heights, sent 
their faint, sweet notes of joyous melody from out the azure 
sky to enchant the ear of wingless man. Handsome cattle, 
sleek with luscious pasture, dappled the green of the trim- 
hedged fields with brown and white and black, or stood 
reflected in the calm waters of the limpid ponds from which 
they drank. A heavy young colt, with thews and sinews 
that bespoke the strength and vigor of the race of shire- 
horses from which he sprang, stopped his mad scampers 
round a roomy paddock to gaze contemplatively over the 
white-barred gate at Stephen, as though mutely inviting him 
to join his youthful frolic. 

But Stephen was blind and deaf to everything around him. 
His brow was puckered in gloomy thought, and his un¬ 
seeing eyes were fixed upon the dust which his sauntering 
feet kicked up as he walked aimlessly along the highway. 
He was utterly unconscious of the direction he took; and 
although he returned the cheery greetings of such wayfarers 
as passed him, he did it as mechanically as he swung the 
cane which he carried. 


307 


308 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Coming at length abreast the stile which gave entrance to 
the leafy depths of Greypool Wood, he paused. The rays of 
the mounting sun were growing more powerful, and 
Stephen’s shoes were already thick with dust, whereas the 
wood offered him a cool, clean sanctuary in which he might 
indulge his reverie to the uttermost, undisturbed by lumber¬ 
ing cart or jovial horseman. 

After a moment’s hesitation he climbed the stile and set 
off along the faintly marked pathway. He crossed the 
glade which, despite his preoccupation, brought back to him 
vivid recollections of his primitive encounter with Sir Ran¬ 
dolph Gorst; but a minute or two later he was sitting near 
the pool, wrapped once again in thoughtful gloom. 

The knowledge that he was again free to go where he 
willed, that he need no longer fear the long arm of the law, 
had long since ceased to give him pleasure. The incredulous 
joy which had surged through him when he heard Averill lie 
unblushingly in his defence had been short-lived; within 
half an hour of her having put Crisp to rout she had given 
him gently, but very plainly, to understand that her action 
was due, not to her liking for him, but to her antipathy to 
Barbara Meltondene and Gorst. It was her whim to worst 
those who conspired against him—just that, and nothing 
more. 

It never occurred to Stephen to question this trite explana¬ 
tion of her motives. Like most men of his type in their 
dealings with women, he was inclined to accept things at 
their face value; the intricate twistings and turnings of the 
feminine mind were outside his ken. Hence Averill’s 
cold, precise remarks had dealt a shattering blow at the new¬ 
born hope which had quickened the beat of his heart and 
brightened the light of his eyes; and dark despair accom¬ 
panied him when he left her dwelling. 

Yet his innate stubbornness had forbidden him to accept 
defeat without further question. Thrice had he called 
at Oldfield Grange since that eventful day, and thrice had 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


309 


she received him with a formal courtesy that forbade him 
to advance any claim to intimacy with her. True, Colonel 
Oldfield had on each occasion welcomed him with bluff 
cordiality and invited him to repeat his visit, but neither 
cordiality nor invitation had been seconded by Averill. Her 
manner had been coldly aloof, leaving him no option but to 
believe that she preferred his room to his company. 

Nevertheless, he still lingered in Bolderburn, although, 
apart from a chance remark of Sylvia Ravenscourt’s which 
may have influenced him, it is probable that he could not 
have advanced any adequate reason for so doing. But from 
the way in which that remark of Sylvia’s had been uttered 
it had seemed to him to possess some significance—a signif¬ 
icance which was not very apparent, however. He was 
leaving Oldfield Grange after his third rebuff when Sylvia 
entered the gates alone and on horseback. He would have 
passed her by with nothing more than a formal salutation, 
but she stopped him with a gesture and reined in her horse. 

“Fie, Mr. Burgoyne!” she cried reprovingly. “Do you 
still bear me ill-will for what I said to you that day at the 
inn ?” 

“No, no, madam,” he protested, in some confusion. 

“Then why do you attempt to pass me without either 
a word or a smile ? I thought that by now we had become 
friends.” 

“Indeed, Miss Ravenscourt, ’tis as a friend that I regard 
you, and with good reason,” he said, with obvious sincerity. 

“Then tell me why you are so distrait and look so un¬ 
happy. Does Averill still prove unkind?” she asked slyly. 

“I am beginning to think that she hates me,” he replied 
wearily. 

“Hate is preferable to indifference, sir,” she reminded 
him. “ ’Tis, like pity, near akin to love. And remember 
that despair never yet helped any man to win a woman 
who was worth the winning.” 

She had smiled meaningly as she left him to ponder her 


310 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


cryptic utterance, and somehow that smile had lifted a 
little of the cloud that damped his spirits. But now it 
had descended again—heavier and more depressing than 
ever; and as he sat there beside the pool, the conviction 
that his love for Averill was entirely hopeless grew upon him 
until it became a certainty. This fantastic adventure of 
his had come to a sorry finish; and there was nothing left 
for him to do but to return to town and its pleasures, and 
to seek in them the antidote for his misery. 

With a sigh he rose to his feet, and at that very moment 
Averill herself appeared in the path. She was clad in 
a filmy gown of pale green, and carried a basket on her 
arm; and, as she came slowly towards him, Stephen thought 
that he had never before looked upon a woman whose appear¬ 
ance was so perfectly in keeping with the sylvan beauty of 
her surroundings. 

Her gaze was fixed pensively on the ground, and for a 
moment or two she did not see him standing there motion¬ 
less; but when she lifted her eyes and caught sight of him 
a bright crimson flood mantled her cheeks, and she frowned 
slightly, as though annoyed that she had found him here. 
But her footsteps never faltered. She came straight on, 
and stopped opposite to him as she gave him good day. 

“This is the second time we have met in Greypool Wood, 
Mr. Burgoyne,” she said. “You remember the first, per¬ 
haps.” 

“I devoutly wish that I could forget it, madam,” he said 
earnestly. 

“And so do I. ’Tis no pleasant memory.” 

“Much would I give to banish it completely from your 
mind, but that is scarce possible. Yet I fain would try to 
dull its recollection by making our present meeting more 
agreeably memorable.” 

“And how will you accomplish that, pray?” she flashed 
at him. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


311 


“Nay, madam, I know not,” he said lamely. “But if 
you will linger here awhile with me I might-” 

“Impossible, sir,” she interposed, with finality. “I go 
upon an errand and have little time to waste.” 

“Then may I accompany you?” he pleaded. “Your 
basket looks heavily laden, and I could relieve you of its 
burden.” 

She hesitated; then she smiled roguishly. “Think you 
that your carrying of my basket is like to make our meet¬ 
ing memorable?” she asked archly. “Other men have 
carried baskets for me, sir, but who they were or when they 
did it I cannot recall. Still, the basket is heavy, as you 
surmise, for among other things it contains a pot of honey, 
another of cream, and two pounds of fresh butter, and I 
have nigh a mile to go. So I think you may carry it part 
of the way.” 

With pulses quickening to her unexpected graciousness, 
Stephen took the basket from her and fell into step beside her. 

“You go to visit the sick?” he hazarded conversationally. 

“No. An aged aunt of Sergeant Ball’s lives-” 

The sentence was never finished, for a large, dirty hand 
closed over her mouth, and she was held in a stifling, re¬ 
morseless grip. She could not scream, nor could she move 
her arms, but she struggled violently, though fruitlessly, 
to free herself. At the same instant a heavy blow from a 
club felled Stephen to the ground. He lay there half stun¬ 
ned, partially conscious of what w~as going on around him 
but unable to make any effort to rise. He dimly heard a 
sharp command, and felt somebody seize his coat-collar and 
roughly peel the coat and waistcoat from his back; then 
strong arms held him whilst a gag was thrust into his mouth 
and his arms and legs were pinioned. 

When full consciousness returned to him he found him¬ 
self staring up at four of the most ill-favored ruffians he had 
ever seen. Their evil, leering eyes were gazing at him sar¬ 
donically, and as he shifted his glance he was horrified to 




312 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


see Averill, also bound and gagged, sitting with her back 
against a tree. By her side stood Sir Randolph Gorst, a 
triumphant smile on his face and an ugly light in his eyes. 

A stifled groan escaped Stephen. Immediately Gorst 
stepped forward, and without warning he savagely kicked 
the prostrate man in the side with all his force. Thrice 
did his foot swing back and forth without pause; then one 
of the ruffians, hearing a faint but significant crack and 
noting the ghastly pallow of Stephen’s pain-drawn face, 
touched Gorst on the shoulder. 

“Steady, guvnor,” he said warningly. “He’s had enough 
for a bit.” 

“Enough!” cried Gorst. “He’ll have had more than 
enough by the time I’ve finished with him.” He paused, 
and gazed from one to the other of his prisoners. “ ’Tis a 
sweeter revenge than I ever dreamed of,” he said gloatingly, 
with a malignant smile. “We set out to hunt the buck, 
and we capture the doe as well. I had not expected to get 
you for a day or two yet, madam, but I seize my oppor¬ 
tunities when they come. This merely hastens matters, 
that is all. And now, madam, you shall have ocular de¬ 
monstration of how Randolph Gorst pays his debts.” 

Averill watched him with fearful, fascinated eyes as he 
stooped down and picked up a whip that had lain unnoticed 
on the ground. To her horror, she noted that instead of 
one lash the whip had about half a dozen, bunched to¬ 
gether in the manner of a cat-o’nine-tails. She saw 
Stephen dragged forward and tied up to a dying and almost 
leafless tree, which stood isolated in the middle of a clear¬ 
ing, with his arms encircling the trunk; and she shuddered, 
for there was no mistaking Gorst’s brutal intent. 

“Now, Buck Burgoyne, listen to me,” he said in silken 
tones, when his hired accomplices had completed their task 
to his liking. “ ’Tis fitting that the beautiful eyes that 
once watched you whip me should witness the retribution 
that is about to befall you. For days have I sought, with- 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


313 


out success, to entrap you; but I am a patient man, and I 
bide my time. And now my time has come, and it brings 
me all that I could possibly have desired.” He drew the 
thongs of his whip caressingly through his fingers. “Here 
we are free from any possibility of interruption; and I thank 
the gods for leading you once too often into this charming 
wood.” 

He paused, and took from his pocket a small penknife. 
With this he carefully cut away the shirt from Stephen’s 
back and arms, so that it hung in ribbons from his waist, 
leaving his muscular shoulders bare and white in the sun¬ 
light. 

“Now, methinks, we are quite ready, Buck Burgoyne. 
But before I commence my very pleasant task, let me tell 
you a secret. Soon you will be in no condition to listen to 
secrets, and I would not have you miss this one for the 
world. When next you see Lady Averill Stapleton she 
will be either a wife or a plaything. Which, depends upon 
herself. When you recover consciousness she will be far 
away from here, bound for either Gretna or hell. If she be 
reasonable ’twill be the former; if not, the latter. Ah! 
that makes you squirm, eh ? And it makes my lady shudder. 
But, believe me, sir, ere long my lady will thrill instead of 
shudder; ’tis always so with the women to whom I make 
love. One more word. Let me warn you that pursuit 
will be futile. Several hours must pass before my lady 
is missed from her home, and by midnight tonight ’twill be 
too late for anyone but me to save her honor. I trust my 
meaning is clear, sir.” 

He laughed, and, stepping back a space, measured his 
distance with his eye. No further word did he speak, but, 
raising the hand which held the whip, he struck at Stephen 
with all the savagery of which he was capable. 

The very first blow raised angry red weals on Stephen’s 
unprotected flesh; at the second, little spurts of blood ap¬ 
peared and ran down his back. Averill could no longer 


314 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


endure the spectacle. With an effort she flung herself 
prone and buried her face in the grass, but she was unable 
to close her ears to the dreadful, stifled groans which were 
wrung from the tortured man. 

Gorst’s lust for revenge seemed insatiable. Tirelessly 
his arm rose and fell, and fiendish chuckles broke from his 
lips. Stephen had long since lost consciousness, and his 
back was a mass of bloody pulp, when the man who had 
previously interfered ran forward ’ and, with an oath, 
snatched the whip from Sir Randolph’s grasp. Gorst 
turned upon him with a snarl of rage, but he was a burly 
rogue, with the bearing and face of the professional pugilist, 
and the baronet knew better than to strike him. 

“Damn you!” he cried. “Give me that whip!” 

“Not I!” returned the man insolently. “What’s the 
sense o’ thrashing an unconscious man ? Let him be. It’ll 
be weeks before he recovers from what he’s had, and he’ll 
bear some o’ them marks till his dying day.” 

“Serve him right too, damn him!” said Gorst vindictively. 
“Go you to the road, and whistle twice the moment Jim 
gets back with the carriage. I don’t want to be seen wait¬ 
ing near this wood.” 

The man departed on his errand, taking the whip with 
him, and Gorst walked to where Averill lay sobbing in the 
grass. 

“Cease your crying, girl,” he ordered roughly. “Tears 
will not avail you. As for your lover, he’ll be fit for nothing 
for many a long day, so you have naught to hope for from 
him. If that fool hadn’t interfered I’d have maimed him 
for life.” 

Summoning her pride to her aid, Averill sat up, but 
promptly she regretted it, for her eyes fell upon Stephen’s 
shockingly lacerated back. The pitiless rays of the now 
hot sun struck full upon it, and already flies were settling 
on his wounds. She thought of the hours of torture that 
must be his ere succor came to him; the wood was little 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


315 


frequented, and his only hope lay in some farm laborer 
who might use its path as a short cut from field to road. 
Had her mouth been free of its gag, she would have pleaded 
desperately for his release, offered well-nigh everything she 
possessed that he might be saved from the misery that he 
must endure after he regained consciousness. For, seeing 
him thus hurt and helpless, she realized that what Sylvia 
Ravenscourt had said to her that day in the garden was 
only too true. She loved him, loved him as she had never 
thought to love any man; but the revelation came too late 
to be of service to either of them. 

Watching her intently, Gorst understood much of what 
was passing through her mind. 

“There, madam; I think we have now done all we can 
for your lover,” he announced, with a hateful chuckle. “A 
month hence you will laugh with me over the recollection 
of this little affair. ’Tis a pity that there is not an ant-heap 
near at hand over which we could tie him down; ’twould 
be a joy to the little creatures to wander undisturbed over 
such an attractive mortal.” Even the baronet’s cut-throat 
hirelings were inclined to show disapproval of this latest act 
of wanton cruelty, and he who had seized the whip remarked 
to another in an undertone: 

“He’s a fiend incarnate. God help that poor lass! I’ve 
half a mind to wash my hands of the business here and 
now.” 

“Don’t be a fool!” growled his friend. “What’s it got 
to do wi’ the likes of us how th’ quality settle their differ¬ 
ences? Besides, it’ll be time enough to quit when we’ve 
got paid for th’ job.” 

At that moment a shrill whistle twice repeated fell upon 
their ears, and at a word from their leader the men made 
ready to depart. 

“Two of you pick this lady up and carry her gently,” 
commanded Sir Randolph. “If she struggles tell me, and 
I’ll deal with her. Matt, you go on ahead and see that 


316 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

the coast is clear. Nobody must see us put her into the 
carriage.” 

He turned to Averill as the two men lifted her by her 
shoulders and ankles. His threat to deal with her had 
had the desired effect, for she was quiescent in their grasp 
and made no attempt at resistance. 

“Take a last look at your lover, madam,” he counselled 
her mockingly. “ ’Tis the last time you will ever see him, 
methinks. A sight for the gods, isn’t he?” 

Laughing again, he signalled to his men to go forward, 
and the party moved away down the path, leaving behind 
them a pitiable wreck of a man who was slowly beginning 
to awake to the soul-searing pain of his fly-covered wounds. 


CHAPTER XXII 


WHEREIN JERRY DODD EXPERIENCES AN EVENTFUL EVENING 

J EREMIAH DODD whistled gaily as he walked. The 
still, pearly dusk of a warm summer’s evening always 
seemed to him to have a marked effect upon his spirits, and 
never had he known an evening lovelier than this one. 
Furthermore, he had good reason to be happy, for he had 
sold more pills, liniment, ointment, and medicine—to say 
nothing of love potions—at Ingleton Fair than he had ever 
done before, and in such weather the forthcoming fair at 
Bolderburn, which opened tomorrow, was bound to bring 
him much profit. 

He shifted his pack to his other shoulder as he left the 
field path and climbed the stile wdiich gave access to the 
wood. Soon he w r ould reach the highroad, and then a 
very few minutes more would see him in the Nag’s Head 
kitchen, enjoying the repast for which his stomach was be¬ 
ginning to clamor. Tom Hindle’s ale would be mighty 
pleasant in the drinking after such a hot day; it had not its 
peer in all Lancashire. 

A peculiar sound put an end to Jerry’s anticipations of 
the good fare to come, and he stopped dead in his tracks 
and listened intently. However, the sound was not re¬ 
peated, and after a moment or two he continued on his way. 
But he had scarce taken half a dozen paces when he stopped 
again with an exclamation of horror, and stood staring in¬ 
credulously at the form of a bloody, half-naked man whose 
apparently lifeless body was bound in an upright position 
to the trunk of a tree. 


317 


318 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“My God! It’s Mr. Burgoyne!” 

Swiftly he ran to Stephen’s side, and, dropping his pack, 
took a knife from his pocket and severed the cords which 
bound him. Released, Stephen toppled in a heap to the 
ground, and immediately Jerry dropped on one knee beside 
him, carefully removed the gag from his swollen mouth, and, 
stooping, listened for the beat of his heart. With a grunt 
of relief he began to chafe the unconscious man’s hands to 
bring back the circulation which had been impeded by the 
cruel cords which had bound his wrists. 

After working thus for some little time, he espied the 
jar which contained the honey, and picking it up, he ran 
to the pool, washed it out, and brought it back brimming 
with clear, cold water. Placing the jar carefully on the 
ground, he stood a moment in indecision as to what to do 
next; then he opened his pack and took therefrom several 
of the linen bandages which were part of his stock-in-trade. 

“Better clean him up a bit before I try to bring him back 
to his senses,” he murmured compassionately. “ ’Twill 
make it a trifle easier for him.” 

Very carefully he turned Stephen over on to his face, 
and immediately curses long and deep broke from Jerry’s 
lips. 

“May heaven requite those responsible for such devilry!” 
he snarled, through clenched teeth. “I’ll requite ’em my¬ 
self if ever I lay hands on ’em.” 

Working with the gentle tenderness of a woman, and with 
a skill which the practice of his trade had given him, he 
cleaned the clotted, fly-blown weals on Stephen’s back, 
shoulders, and arms. This necessitated several journeys 
to the pool, but at length his task was completed to his 
satisfaction; so, after smearing the wounds all over with an 
ointment which he took from his pack, he contrived, with 
no little difficulty, to bandage his patient completely from 
neck to waist. This done, he laid him on his back, and, 
holding up his head, bathed the pallid face and contrived 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


319 


to pour some raw spirit down the parched throat. At last 
his efforts were rewarded, and Stephen opened pain-filled 
eyes to gaze into the compassionate face above him. 

“Water,” he moaned thickly. “Water.” 

Jerry had anticipated the request, and picking up the 
jar, he held it to his patient’s swollen lips. Stephen drank 
eagerly, but it was no easy matter for him to swallow. 

“Take it easy, Mr. Burgoyne,” counselled Jerry softly. 
“There’s plenty of time.” 

The word “time” seemed to startle Stephen. He thrust 
the jar aside, and stared round him wildly. Then words, 
rendered almost incoherent by the state of his mouth, began 
to pour from his lips. 

“They’ve taken her away, Jerry,” he mumbled brokenly. 
“There is not a moment to lose. We must go after her 
now, immediately. Get horses; quick! We must ride like 
the devil, or God knows what that fiend Gorst will do to 
her. Get horses, I say. And find Ned. Tell him to 
follow us-” 

“Come, come, Mr. Burgoyne, you must be calm,” inter¬ 
posed Jerry soothingly. “Let me get you to the inn, and 
you can tell your story there.” 

“Damn you! Do as I tell you!” Stephen’s voice was 
growing stronger, and his eyes glared with anger. “He is 
taking her to Gretna. He will make her life a hell. Get 
you gone for the horses.” 

Realizing that the best course was to humor him, Jerry, 
by dint of promises and skilful questions, contrived to worm 
the whole pitiful story in broken sentences from the half- 
delirious man. Jerry’s former military service had taught 
him the value of prompt action and inured him to tales of 
horror, and he wasted no time in expressions of sympathy. 
No sooner was he in full possession of the facts than his 
quick brain had come to a decision as to the best course to 
pursue. 

“Leave it to me, Mr. Burgoyne,” he said. 


“First I 



320 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


must get you to the inn; that is imperative. Then I’ll 
send Jack Hindle to find Ned whilst I go and tell Colonel 
Oldfield what has happened. I-” 

“Come on, then,” interrupted Stephen impatiently. “You 
can tell me your plans as we go. Help me to rise.” 

Jerry opened his eyes wide and shook his head. “You 
can’t possibly walk, Mr. Burgoyne,” he said. “I shall 
have to carry you on my shoulders to the road, and-” 

“Walk, you fool! Of course I can walk,” cried Stephen 
irritably. “Help me, I say.” 

Shaking his head the while, Jerry very tenderly took 
him by the forearms and got him to his feet. He groaned 
with pain as he stood upright, and the sweat showed in 
beads on his forehead as Jerry helped him into his coat; 
but to the ex-trooper’s amazement he did not fall, but, with 
an effort that must have cost him untold agony, he began 
to stride in drunken fashion towards the road. The quack 
doctor marvelled as, giving his patient all the help he could, 
they staggered together down the path. Never before had 
he seen dominant will triumph over ailing body in such a 
manner, and the pace they made surprised him still further. 

By great good fortune, just as they reached the road a 
wain piled high with hay was passing in the direction of 
Bolderburn. Jerry hailed the wagoner, a good-tempered, 
bucolic individual, and together they lifted Stephen on to 
the soft, fragrant pile. A few words sufficed to satisfy the 
wagoner’s curiosity, and very soon the cart stopped outside 
the Nag’s Head Inn. 

Jerry assisted Stephen to alight, and started to lead him 
into the inn. But Stephen thrust him aside and sank down 
on a bench outside the door. 

“Go and find Jack, and send him for Ned,” he said curtly. 
“Then get my horse and one for yourself. I’ll wait here.” 

“But, Mr. Burgoyne, you can’t possibly ride a horse!” 
protested Jerry, aghast. “I’ll do all that is necessary. Get 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


321 


you to bed, and leave things to me. Ned and I will have 
Lady Averill back safe and sound by the time you wake.” 

“Go to the devil!” retorted Stephen rudely. “Get me 
my horse, and cease prating of what you will do.” 

Inwardly marvelling at his stamina, Jerry wasted no fur¬ 
ther words, but ran into the stable yard. He was quite con¬ 
vinced that Stephen could not stay in the saddle for two 
minutes, but he recognized that nothing short of the experi¬ 
ment would satisfy him. 

Jerry’s interview with Jack Hindle was brief and to the 
point, and within five minutes the quick rattle of hoofs told 
Stephen, sitting in a half-fainting condition with his head 
lolling on his chest, that he was away on his errand. Then 
Jerry appeared leading two horses, and, with a curt word 
of reprimand to the little group of idlers who were gazing 
curiously at Stephen, he said: 

“The horses are here, Mr. Burgoyne.” 

With an effort, Stephen rose to his feet, and, walking 
forward, essayed to lift foot to stirrup. But the task was 
beyond his powers. But for Jerry he would have fallen, 
yet when the ex-trooper once more begged him to abandon 
his determination he was roundly cursed for his pains. So, 
with the assistance of one of the bystanders, he literally 
lifted Stephen into the saddle, and then stood expecting him 
to tumble out of it again. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” snapped the swaying 
Stephen. “To horse, man! Every second is of value, I 
tell you.” 

And, so saying, he gave to his mount the knee pressure 
for which it waited, and set off down the road at a pace 
which caused beads of agony to trickle down his ashen face. 
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Jerry followed hard in 
his wake, and before very long they were riding knee to 
knee—Stephen rocking like a sapling in a gale, and his 
companion watchful and alert for the headlong tumble which 
he momentarily expected. 


322 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“You are making for Oldfield Grange, I presume, Mr. 
Burgoyne,” hazarded Jerry at length. 

Stephen looked at him stupidly, as if he did not understand 
the remark; then he pulled himself together with an effort. 

“Must see Colonel Oldfield before we set off in pursuit,” 
he said dully. 

“I doubt if we shall find him at home,” said Jerry, shak¬ 
ing his head dubiously. “He must have missed her lady¬ 
ship long ago. However, it’s not far to the Grange, and it 
will certainly be better to act in concert with him.” 

The other vouchsafing no reply, they rode on in silence. 
It was not very long before they came to the large gates 
which gave entrance to the Colonel’s grounds, but had it not 
been for Jerry, Stephen would have ridden past them. Dark¬ 
ness was falling, but it was not the darkness which was 
responsible for his failure to notice them. He was well-nigh 
blind with his sufferings, and it was only his extraordinary 
will-power that prevented him from slipping unconscious to 
the ground. 

The gates stood wide open and the lodge-keeper’s cottage 
was in darkness, so, stretching out a gentle hand, Jerry 
grasped Stephen’s reins and turned the two horses into the 
drive. He was relieved to notice that lights gleamed 
everywhere in the house which they approached, and at the 
very moment that their horses came to a standstill Colonel 
Oldfield himself, hatted, booted, and spurred, ran down 
the broad steps that led from the main entrance doors. 

“You bring news, gentlemen?” he cried excitedly. 

Before Jerry could reply, Stephen, roused from his semi¬ 
conscious condition by the rasping voice of the old soldier, 
slipped from the saddle and reeled drunkenly forward. The 
Colonel eyed him in amazement, quite certain from his de¬ 
meanor that he was under the influence of liquor, and he 
would have turned away in disgust had not Stephen laid 
a heavy hand on his reluctant shoulder. 

“You’re right, sir,” said Stephen, somewhat incoherently. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


323 


“We bring news—bad news—the worst possible.” He 
passed his free hand wearily across his brow, as though to 
clear away the mists that befogged his brain. “It’s—it’s 
about Averill, sir. They’ve carried her off—to hell, I 
think. That’s what Gorst said. Or was it Gretna? One 
of the two, sir, or perhaps both. I’m going after them. 
I’ll shoot him on sight, damn him! I—I—swear-” 

His voice trailed away into silence, and then, before 
Jerry could save him, he pitched headlong at the Colonel’s 
feet. Immediately Jerry went down on his knees beside 
him, and promptly began to issue peremptory orders to one 
who had once been his commanding officer, and who, mysti¬ 
fied beyond measure, obeyed him like a lamb. 

“He must be got to bed at once, sir,” said Jerry urgently, 
when, in response to the Colonel’s roar, two grooms had 
hurried forward to render assistance. “God alone knows 
what he has suffered this day. Send for a doctor post 
haste. And he’ll need a nurse—a good one—if his life is 
to be saved.” 

The men carried their burden into the house, and as they 
crossed the hall Sylvia Ravenscourt appeared. Taking in 
the situation at a glance, she very quickly assumed com¬ 
mand, and, waving the Colonel and Jerry away, had the 
sick man carried upstairs. 

“What does all this mean?” cried the Colonel, when he 
and Jerry were left alone. 

In as few words as possible Jerry told of his finding of 
Stephen in Greypool Wood, and repeated the story which 
he had heard. All the time he was talking the enraged 
Colonel was cursing luridly under his breath and vowing dire 
vengeance on Sir Randolph Gorst. 

“By Jupiter! he shall suffer for this,” he cried, as Jerry 
finished his narrative. “He shall hang for it if I have to 
move heaven and earth to bring him to justice.” 

“Excuse me, sir, but we’re wasting time,” Jerry reminded 
him gently. “Have you sent anyone in pursuit?” 



324 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“No, sir, I haven’t,” replied the Colonel distractedly. 
“Lady Averill had gone to visit an aged woman with whom 
she often spends an afternoon, and she was not expected back 
until this evening. ’Twas only when darkness was falling 
and she had not returned that I began to get uneasy and 
sent Sergeant Ball to meet her; and I was about to set out 
myself when you and Mr. Burgoyne arrived. What think 
you is our best course?” 

Jerry pondered a moment; then he said: “X go from 

here to meet one whose aid is worth that of a dozen ordinary 
men. I suggest that you send out horsemen—hard riders 
who will stop for nothing—along the main road to the 
north. Bid them ask at inn and posting-house as they go 
if anyone answering to Sir Randolph’s description has been 
seen. If so, let them send one man back to you here as 
soon as they get definite news, when you must act as you 
think fit. But if, when they’ve covered thirty miles, they 
have procured no information which leads them to suppose 
that they’re on the right track, they may as well return, for 
to proceed farther will be useless.” 

“Why?” snapped the Colonel. 

“Because if Gorst has gone north, no matter what by¬ 
roads he may think it wise to make use of, he’ll be compelled 
to return to the main highway long before he has covered 
thirty miles of his journey. And a man of his quality, 
particularly when accompanied by a lady, can’t go far with¬ 
out being noticed.” 

“Hum! That’s true,” mused the Colonel. “But sup¬ 
pose the villain has gone south instead of north?” 

Jerry shook his head. “I’m convinced that he spoke the 
truth to Mr. Burgoyne,” he said sagely. “He had no object 
in lying, for he must have been quite certain that Mr. 
Burgoyne could do naught to make his plans miscarry.” 

“He has got a devil of a long start,” said the Colonel 
heavily. He appeared to have aged a dozen years in the 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 325 

past few minutes, and Jerry felt his heart go out to him in 
sympathy. 

“He has, sir, but remember that he wasn’t prepared for 
flight. He must have had many preparations to make which 
would delay him considerably, and I think we’ve good 
reason to hope, sir.” 

The Colonel sighed. “And I? What am I to do?” 
he asked despondently. “Am I to sit twiddling my thumbs 
whilst others do the work?” 

“No, sir,” replied Jerry emphatically, as he prepared to 
depart. “You have much to do to organize the pursuit, 
and ’tis essential that someone in authority should remain 
here. For ’tis to this house, Lady Averill’s home, that news 
will naturally be sent, and it is possible that vital informa¬ 
tion which will demand prompt action may be received here 
at any moment. It seems to me that victory or defeat 
might very easily hang on such a thread, sir,” he concluded 
quietly. 

“It might be so,” agreed the Colonel, with a grimace, 
“Yet I’ll wager that, in your heart, you anticipate nothing 
of the sort, you rascal; you do but attempt to soothe my 
vanity. But have it your own way; my youth is gone, and 
only youth is good for hard riding over long distances.” 

Leaving the Grange, Jerry made haste to reach the cross¬ 
roads at which he hoped to meet Carless. But although his 
message to the highwayman had been one of the utmost 
urgency, he was not surprised to find that he was the first 
to reach the trysting-place, for it was by not means certain 
that Jack Hindle would find Carless without any difficulty. 

However, he had not long to wait. Scarce twenty min¬ 
utes had elapsed before Carless pulled up his hard-breathing 
mare under the four-fingered sign-post beside which Jerry 
awaited his coming. 

“What’s toward, Jerry?” he asked, without parley. 

Briefly the ex-trooper narrated the events of the day, 
and not a word did Carless speak until he had finished. 


326 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


Then, bidding his companion follow him, he wheeled his 
horse, and, to Jerry’s surprise, set off at an easy canter 
along the road to the east. But Jerry knew better than 
to ask questions, and rode silently alongside until the other 
thought fit to explain. 

“You are surprised at our direction,” said Carless, after 
they had progressed thus for some hundreds of yards. 

“I am,” confessed Jerry. 

“I thought so.” Carless smiled. “The obvious course 
would be to ride north, and that is just what Gorst will 
expect us to do. Not that he fears pursuit; given a few 
hours more and pursuit would be futile. At least, so it 
seems to me.” 

“You think we couldn’t catch him?” 

“I think ’twould be useless to catch him,” returned 
Carless significantly. He turned in his saddle and fixed 
upon his companion eyes that burned in the gloom like live 
coals. “Jerry, believe me when I tell you that Gorst is 
the damnedest villain that I have ever known. Unless we 
rescue Lady Averill tonight she will be neither maid, wife, 
nor widow when the dawn breaks.” 

Jerry started. “You mean?” 

“I mean that by that time the only man who can aid her 
will be Gorst himself,” replied Carless grimly. “And 
furthermore, I think it likely that his aid will not be forth¬ 
coming.” 

“My God! You think him capable of such infamy?” 
cried Jerry, aghast. 

“He is capable of anything where his desires are con¬ 
cerned. But I think he has made a false move this time.” 

“You are hopeful, then?” ventured Jerry eagerly. 

“I am more than that,” responded Carless. “I am 
almost certain, for Gorst has not yet left the district.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Because I saw him less than a hour ago. He was 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


327 


muffled in a long cloak and had a slouch hat drawn down 
over his eyes, but I recognized him nevertheless.” 

“Where was he when you saw him?” 

Carless flushed a little at the question, but the darkness 
covered his confusion. “I was giving my mare a breather 
in the little coppice that stands opposite the gates of Blen- 
tham Lodge when I saw him come out, mount his horse, 
and ride away as if the devil were after him.” 

“Blentham Lodge!” echoed Jerry. “Isn’t that where 
Lady Meltondene lives?” 

“It is,” said Carless. “And ’tis to Blentham Lodge that 
we are going. An I mistake not, we shall find Lady Averill 
Stapleton imprisoned there.” 

“What makes you think that?” asked Jerry, refraining 
from giving vent to the unbounded surprise that he felt at 
this announcement. 

Carless hesitated, and when he did make reply his obvious 
reluctance and a note of irritation in his voice warned Jerry 
that he was treading on delicate ground, and would be wise 
to be chary of asking too many questions. 

“Lady Meltondene has, for some obscure reason, abetted 
Gorst in his schemes again Burgoyne,” Carless explained 
grudgingly. “Doubtless he has persuaded her that his 
carrying off of Lady Averill is a part of them, and she has 
consented to his arrangements. But, by heaven! he shall 
pay dearly for his temerity before this night is over. Some¬ 
thing tells me that, ere many more hours are sped, I shall 
have squared my account with Sir Randolph Gorst. And 
that account is passing heavy,” he concluded grimly. 

He said no more until they had come within about fifty 
yards of the house they sought. Here he dismounted, and, 
ordering Jerry to do likewise, he led his mare into a field and 
tethered her to a bush which stood a few yards from the 
gate. 

“Now listen carefully, Jerry,” he said, in an undertone. 
“First of all, we will reconnoitre the house. I know the 


328 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


place fairly well, and it should not be difficult to find out 
in which room Lady Averill is imprisoned. That done, the 
rest is, I think, easy. The house is small, and apart from 
the grooms and the butler, the servants are all women. The 
only one likely to give trouble is her ladyship’s French maid. 
She is a vixen and passionately devoted to her mistress, and 
she would sacrifice anything, even her life, to serve her.” 

Jerry smiled. “We won’t drive her as far as that,” he 
said jocularly. “You propose to rescue Lady Averill by 
force, then?” 

“Certainly not!” Carless’s words were sharp and stern. 
“Dismiss that from your mind. There must be no violence. ’ 

“You mistake me, Ned. You always say that the boldest 
course is generally the safest, and in this case I agree. I 
take it that you’ll simply march into the house, break open 
the door of the room in which Lady Averill is imprisoned, 
and carry her out.” 

“Then you take it wrong,” retorted Carless acidly. 

“But why not?” persisted Jerry. “That is surely the 
simplest way, for you have already said that there is nothing 
to fear from the servants. Or does the thought of the 
French maid scare you?” he queried slyly. 

But Carless was in no mood for jesting. “When I want 
your advice I’ll ask for it,” he said curtly. “Your plan 
would doubtless be successful, but it does not accord with 
what you would call my whim, Jerry. I am determined 
that, no matter what the cost, Lady Meltondene shall be 
saved from the consequences of her folly in abetting Gorst 
in this affair.” 

“But she-” 

“Enough!” Carless’s tone was peremptory. “If you are 
not prepared to carry out my instructions, then I shall be 
glad if you’ll be good enough to betake yourself elsewhere.” 

Jerry made no reply. He knew better than to run counter 
to Carless when he was in this mood, and he had implicit 
faith in the ability of the highwayman to carry to a success- 



CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


329 


ful issue any plans that he had in mind. So he stood in 
silence awaiting orders, and in a moment or two Carless 
laughed shortly. 

“You are not} going, then?” he queried quizzically. 
“Very well. Follow me.” 

He led the way across the dark field in which they had 
tethered their horses, and presently stopped at a high brick 
wall which barred their path. 

“This is the garden wall,” he whispered. “ ’Tis ivy-clad 
a little farther along, and easy to scale.” He groped along 
the wall for a few yards. “Here we are. Up with you, 
and make no noise.” 

Within a minute or two they stood, tense and listening, 
in the gloomy, silent garden. Not a sound could they hear 
save the soft, fitful sigh of the warm night breeze as it stirred 
in the tall tree-tops; and almost immediately Carless took 
Jerry by the hand and led him cautiously along the smooth- 
shaven grass which bordered a winding path. They were 
approaching one side of the house, and very soon they came 
in sight of it. Carless paused as they did so, and pointed 
to a solitary light that gleamed in an unshuttered first- 
floor window which opened on to a balcony. 

“I’ll wager Lady Averill is in that room,” he whispered 
triumphantly, a quiver of excitement in his voice. “And 
I’m going to make certain. Remain here until I return.” 

He pulled off his riding-boots, and Jerry watched his dim 
figure as he sped swiftly over the lawn and clambered, cat¬ 
like and noiseless, up one of the pillars which supported the 
balcony. Nor was he long gone upon his errand. Long 
before Jerry expected him he was back again and putting on 
his boots. 

“Is she there?” asked Jerry excitedly. 

“Aye, she’s there all right,” he returned grimly. “ ’Tis 
a vastly clever business, Jerry. She lies moaning in bed, 
with all the paraphernalia of a sick-room around her. There 
is a bandage tied tight round her head, chin, and mouth to 


330 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


hide the gag which prevents her screaming, and I can tell 
from the way she lies that she is bound hand and foot. By 
the side of the bed sits Gorst’s lackey, suitably attired, in 
the solicitious attitude of a doctor who dare not leave his 
patient; and whilst I watched, the French maid flitted into 
the room bearing a basin of hot water, a medicine bottle 
and some clean linen for bandages. She winked signific¬ 
antly at the lackey as she placed her burden on a table by 
the side of the bed, and he grinned at her in reply, but not 
a word was spoken. I wonder whose brain was respon¬ 
sible for setting the scene so artfully—Gorst’s or Lady Mel- 
tondene’s,” he mused, stroking his chin. 

“But what is the object of it?” asked Jerry, scratching 
his head in perplexity. 

“Why, ’tis done to deceive the servants. An I mistake 
not, Lady Averill was brought here as a very sick woman 
and conveyed straight to bed. Gorst’s man, posing as the 
doctor, keeps guard over her; and I’ll wager that, apart 
from the French maid, not another servant in the house is 
aware of the patient’s identity.” 

“Hum! The lackey’s presence complicates matters,” 
grumbled Jerry. “He is sure to be armed.” 

“And have you no weapon?” queried Carless sharply. 

“None. Remember that I landed into this affair quite 
unexpectedly.” 

“Then take this,” said Carless, thrusting a double- 
barrelled pistol into his hand. “ ’Tis loaded and primed, 
and I have another in my pocket. We’ve lost time enough. 
So here is my plan. I’m going to pay a formal call on Lady 
Meltondene immediately. That, with luck, will keep her 
occupied until your task is complete. Whilst I am with her 
I shall contrive something that will take Gorst’s fellow out 
of that room. You will be waiting on the balcony, and the 
moment you see him leave you will enter by the window, 
which is open, and carry Lady Averill away. You can lower 
her from the balcony by knotting a sheet to her bonds. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


331 


Waste no time in untying her until you get back to the 
horses. Await me there; but if I don’t join you within a 
quarter of an hour, mount Lady Averill in front of you and 
make all speed to Oldfield Grange. And keep your pistol 
handy as you go, in case you encounter Gorst.” 

Left alone, Jerry followed his leader’s previous example 
and removed his boots, depositing them at the foot of the 
post which Carless had climbed. Then, with an agility 
which matched that of the highwayman, he mounted to 
the balcony, and, crouching beneath the low window-sill, 
peered into the room. The lattice casement was open, and 
the curtains, disturbed by the breeze, were not properly 
closed, with the result that he had little difficulty in seeing 
all that the room contained. 

Averill lay facing the window, her terror-filled violet 
eyes wide open. The pseudo-doctor sat at her bedside, 
half asleep and yawning. It was quite evident that he 
anticipated no disturbance of his peace from outside, and 
he paid not the slightest attention to his prisoner. 

For nearly ten minutes nothing happened. Then a slim, 
handsome, foreign-looking woman of about thirty-five en¬ 
tered the room, and addressed herself to the man. 

“Milady she want to spik to you,” she said, with a half- 
insolent, half-provocative lift of her eyebrows. 

“Wants to speak to me! What for?” he cried, obviously 
astonished. 

“I dunno. She ’ave a visitaire, one who come ’ere often. 
Oh, do not be afraid,” she encouraged him satirically. “ ’E 
is quite ’armless and ver’ nice. Come wiz me.” 

After a moment’s hesitation he grumblingly followed her 
from the room. Promptly Jerry released the casement 
stay, and, pulling the window wide, climbed over the sill. 
Averill saw him, and the alarm in her eyes gave place to 
incredulous joy as she recognized in her visitor one whom 
she had seen on more than one occasion in intimate con¬ 
versation with Sergeant Ball. Smiling at her reassuringly 


332 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


as he approached across the large apartment, he whispered 
confidently: 

“I’ll have you out of this in no time, ma’am.” 

But as he reached her side the sound of footsteps ascend¬ 
ing the stairs without fell upon his ear. At once his eyes 
darted hither and thither in search of a hiding-place. He 
had no time to reach the window through which he had 
come, but heavy velvet curtains close beside him told of the 
alcove which they concealed, and without hesitation he 
stepped behind them. 

He was only just in time. Indeed, the folds of the cur¬ 
tains had not ceased to move when the door opened to admit 
the French maid, who had come to take the lackey’s place 
until he should return. This placed Jerry in a quandary; 
and his expression was doleful in the extreme as, peeping 
through the curtains, he watched her sit down beside the bed 
with her back to him. He glanced at Averill, and noted 
with satisfaction that she had closed her eyes in feigned sleep. 
It was quite obvious that the maid had noticed nothing amiss, 
although the window through which he had come was now 
wide open to the night. 

He set his wits to work. Here was a situation which 
had not been foreseen, and for the life of him he could 
devise no means of dealing with it. He had been warned 
against violence, yet how was he to rescue Averill in such 
circumstances without it? But in any case he could not 
fight with a woman; and to attempt to hold her up at the 
point of his pistol whilst he released Averill was far too 
risky a procedure. If he were any judge of women, no 
pistol in the world would have power to prevent her scream¬ 
ing at the top of her voice the instant she set eyes on him! 

He was still pondering the matter when the man returned. 
Promptly the maid rose to her feet and tripped to the door, 
which he held open for her. 

“You ’ave not been long, monsieur,” she said, stopping 
close beside him and lifting inviting eyes to him. “I am 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


333 


going out for leetle walk now. Per’aps I meet someone. 
Do you not wish that it was you I go to meet, eh? Ze 
garden is ver’ dark, monsieur.” 

Seizing her suddenly round the waist, the man pulled 
her to him roughly and kissed her full on her pouting red 
lips. She returned the kiss with fierce ardor, her body 
pressed close to his; then she whispered something in his 
ear, laughed lightly, and was gone. 

Smiling reminiscently, the man closed the door, and, after 
snuffing the candles, seated himself in the chair which 
the maid had vacated. This time Jerry did not hesitate. 
Ned’s orders against violence must go hang; they were 
never meant to apply to such a situation as this. 

Stepping out silently from behind the curtains, he brought 
down the heavy butt of his pistol with all his force on the 
head of the unsuspecting man. The fellow went down 
like a log, and without hesitation Jerry leapt to the bedside, 
and, with a whispered caution, removed the gag from 
Averill’s mouth and transferred it to that of her gaoler. 
Then, whipping back the bedclothes which covered her, 
he took a knife from his pocket, and, once again disregarding 
Ned’s express instructions, cut away the knots of the ropes 
that bound her. This done, he helped her to rise, and 
dropping on his knees beside the unconscious man, he swiftly 
and skilfully trussed him tight with the same cords. Next, 
with an easy strength that made Averill wonder, he lifted 
him and placed him on the bed, where, with a cord snatched 
from one of the window curtains, he tied him head and foot 
to the bedrails, so that when he came to his senses he would 
be unable to move an inch either to right or left. And 
after removing two sheets, which he knotted together, he 
drew up the remainder of the bedclothes until they complete¬ 
ly covered the man’s form and face, so that anyone peeping 
in at the door to see if Averill were still there might well 
imagine that she had snuggled down under the bedclothes. 

“Now, madam, quick is the word!” he whispered urgently. 


334 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“I shall have to lower you from that balcony and contrive 
to get you over the garden wall, so let me tie the end of 
these sheets round you.” 

A woman less courageous than Averill might have fainted 
with pain which the freshly-circulating blood, long retarded 
by her bonds, caused her. But not a murmur passed her 
lips. She allowed Jerry to make the sheets fast round her 
waist and lift her over the sill on to the balcony, and by 
her acuteness of perception made his task of lowering her 
to the ground an easy one. 

Soon he was carrying both her and his boots silently across 
the lawn and along the grass-bordered path by which he had 
come. The wall proved more difficult. Jerry climbed up 
the ivy to the top, and then, bidding Averill take her time 
and to help him by getting such foothold as she could among 
the clinging tendrils of the ivy, he managed to haul her up, 
but not without making considerably more noise than he 
relished. To lower her into the field was the work of a 
few moments, and taking her bodily in his arms again, he 
hurried across the field to where the horses were tethered. 

Here he laid her gently down on the grass and compelled 
her to drink from his flask. Then, without asking her 
permission, he started to massage first her arms and then 
her legs, at the same time answering her eager, whispered 
questions as briefly as he could. Her gratitude to him for 
her deliverance embarrassed him woefully, and at last he said 
gruffly: 

“ ’Tis Ned Carless you have to thank, madam, not me. 
But for him nothing could have saved you. And talk of 
angels, here he comes.” 

Silent as a spectre Carless appeared out of the darkness. 
Averill sat upright as he approached her, and before he 
could prevent her she had seized his hand and kissed it fer¬ 
vently. 

“Sir, you and your friend have made me your debtor for 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 335 

life,” she said, in low, earnest tones. “You have saved 
me from shame unspeakable, and for that I-” 

“Nay, nay, madam, ’tis no time for thanks,” he inter- 
upted her gently. “We are not yet out of the wood, and 
the sooner we are away from here the better.” He signalled 
to Jerry, who had untethered the horses, to mount. “I am 
sorry we haven’t got a spare horse, madam,” he continued. 
“You’ll have to ride with Jerry, for it may be that I shall 
be compelled to leave you ere we reach your home.” 

He offered no further explanation, but assisted her to 
mount in front of his companion. Then, after leading 
both horses out of the held, he sprang into his own saddle, 
and, urging his horse in front of Jerry’s, proceeded at a 
good round pace along the dark road. He rode in momen¬ 
tary expectation of encountering Gorst, but in this he was 
disappointed, for they reached the gates of Oldfield Grange 
without meeting a soul. Here he halted, and, turning in 
his saddle, said: 

“You are at your home, Lady Averill. Jerry will con¬ 
duct you within and hand you over to the charge of Colonel 
Oldfield. I regret that I cannot myself perform that 
pleasing duty, but I am urgently needed elsewhere. Should 
it chance that the Colonel be out, Jerry, you will stay with 
Lady Averill until he returns. You understand?” 

“Yes,” returned Jerry curtly, not relishing the embarras¬ 
sing task of receiving the many expressions of gratitude 
which, as Lady Averill’s rescuer, he knew would be showered 
upon him. 

“Good. I shall be at the barn shortly after midnight. 
Meet me there. Good-night, madam.” 

And, without giving Averill time to say a word, he 
wheeled his horse sharply and disappeared into the night. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


TELLS HOW CARLESS CAME JUST TOO LATE TO PAY HIS DEBT 
HE needlework with which Barbara Meltondene was 



-S- endeavoring to combat the tedium of the evening was 
not proving the antidote to unpleasant thought that she had 
hoped. It certainly kept her fingers busy, but it left her 
mind free to wander untrammelled. And her mind was 
playing her sorry tricks. 

Ever since this morning, when Sir Randolph Gorst had, 
with colossal effrontery, rushed into her house to tell her 
that he had found Lady Averill Stapleton hurt and uncon¬ 
scious in the road, she had had a sense of foreboding—an 
uneasy, prophetic feeling of coming evil. Yet she had sus¬ 
pected nothing when she bade him go and fetch the injured 
woman into the house whilst she and her maid went up¬ 
stairs to prepare a room for her reception; it was only when 
Gorst entered the bedroom accompanied by two villainous- 
looking ruffians, who carried between them an improvised 
stretcher upon which lay a bound and helpless woman, that 
she had discovered that it was a prisoner he brought and not 
an invalid. For the moment she was nonplussed and bereft 
of speech by the sheer audacity of the proceeding, but no 
sooner had the men set down their burden and left the apart¬ 
ment than she turned on Gorst like a fury and demanded 
an explanation. 

“It means, madam, that I have captured my heart’s desire, 
whilst you have to your hand the means to appease your 
hatred of Burgoyne,” he replied, with an insolent laugh of 
triumph. 


336 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 337 

“You fool! Do you imagine that I am going to abet 
you in this?” she cried fiercely. 

“I do,” he returned confidently. “Why not? All I ask 
is that you keep her here for a few hours until-” 

“I will not,” she cried vehemently, stamping her foot. 
“Claudine, release her and let her go.” 

The maid stepped forward to do her bidding, but Gorst 
held up his hand. “One moment,” he said. “Is your 
memory so short, Barbara, that you have forgotten the 
public affront this woman recently put upon you? Have 
you forgotten her contempt for you, the scorn with which 
she spoke of you, the insults she offered you?” 

He stopped to let his words take effect, and he saw 
with satisfaction her bosom heave tempestuously and her 
cheeks flush. He noted the glance of hate that she cast 
upon the wide-eyed woman who lay dumb and helpless on 
the bed, and without waiting for her to speak he hammered 
home the impression which he knew he had made upon her 
reluctance to aid him. 

“The county has cold-shouldered you, Barbara,” he con¬ 
tinued blandly. “Whose fault was that? Lady Averill 
Stapleton’s. A word from her would have made you secure 
in the social position which is yours by right. Did she 
speak that word? No. Instead she let it be understood 
that she regarded you as an outcast, a pariah. Why, then, 
should you lift a finger to help her now that the powder has 
passed from her hands to yours?” 

He paused again, and his own eyes gleamed with triumph 
as he noted the fury that blazed in hers. 

“I do not ask your active help,” he pursued craftily. 
“In the remote event of trouble, you can always plead that 
you were unaware that I had deceived you when I told 
you that Lady Averill was hurt. The enmity that exists 
between you is widely know, and you will be readily be¬ 
lieved if you say that, although you were willing to give 



338 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


her shelter as a sick woman, you refused to see her or to 
hold converse with her.” 

“What do you want me to do ?” she asked in a low, half- 
strangled voice, after a short interval of silence. 

“Little,” he said eagerly. “Claudine here is to be trusted, 
I presume?” 

“Implicitly,” replied Barbara emphatically, as the maid 
tossed a scornful head and pouted. 

“Good. None of your servants saw my men carry 
Lady Averill upstairs, for I had taken the precaution of 
sending them away to get water and bandages and other 
things. They are entirely unsuspicious, and they can be 
kept so. I’ll hasten away now and bring back one who will 
pose as a doctor. Here he will remain in charge until I can 
get Lady Averill away, so that you will have no respon¬ 
sibility whatever.” 

“And for how long does she remain here?” 

“Until tonight.” 

“But that is absurd,” cried Barbara. “They’ll be search¬ 
ing for her long before then.” 

“And who would dream of seeking her at Lady Melton- 
dene’s? You see danger where none exists, Barbara,” he 
chided her softly. “Obviously I dare not take her away 
in the daylight, for even if I succeeded in keeping her face 
hidden I could scarce disguise from everyone that a woman 
travelled with me, and I should leave behind me a trail that 
a child could follow. But if I set out at, say, midnight, 
I am safe from prying eyes. And remember that, once she 
is my wife, Burgoyne will again be eligible, and if it please 
you to favor him—well, you are a very desirable woman,” 
he concluded, with an infinity of meaning. 

That last clever remark of his had clinched the matter, 
and Barbara had consented to offer no further opposition to 
his villainy. But she had many qualms of conscience dur¬ 
ing the long hours that followed. These had driven 
her to try to persuade Averill to promise not to call for 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


339 


help or attempt to escape if her gag and bonds were 
removed, but her prisoner had obstinately refrained from 
making the sign of acquiescence for which she pleaded. At 
length the scorn which she read in Averill’s eyes forced her 
to abandon her persuasions, and she left her to the mercies 
of Claudine and the lackey who posed as a doctor. 

But she had failed miserably to assume the cloak of in¬ 
difference as to what might befall this woman whom she 
hated. For all her callousness, the fate which awaited 
Averill made her shudder. She had no illusions as to 
Gorst’s behavior as a lover; she knew him for the ruthless, 
licentious bully that he was. A dozen times she was on the 
point of going upstairs and setting Averill free; but each 
time the memory of some former slight, or the thought 
that Averill would surely be her successful rival for Stephen 
Burgoyne’s love, checked her, and she remained inactive. 

And when darkness fell, and still Gorst did not come to 
claim his prisoner, she had become thoroughly alarmed. She 
was unaware that, not half an hour before the candles were 
lighted, the baronet had surreptitiously visited the house 
in order to ease his mind as to his captive’s security and 
to give his lackey further instructions. However, her 
alarm was quieted a little when the lackey, upon being 
questioned, told her that he did not expect Sir Randolph 
until ten o’clock, but it was redoubled later when the butler 
announced that Mr. Carless had called and wished to see 
her. Carless had visited her often of late, but never had 
he come at so unconventional an hour as this; and it was 
in fear and trembling that she had bidden the butler admit 
him. 

She had steeled herself as best she could for the interview, 
for she valued Carless’s ardent friendship not a little. He 
treated her always with a reverence and homage which 
was balm to the soul of a woman at whom Society looked 
askance. Furthermore, she knew that he loved her; and 
no woman is quite indifferent to the true and constant love 


340 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


of a man, no matter how lowly his station in life or disreput¬ 
able his character. 

So sure had she been that this unexpected call had to do 
with Averill’s disappearance that her relief was unbounded 
when, after apologizing for the lateness of his visit and in¬ 
dulging in a few moments’ idle conversation, he informed 
her that he had lost a riding-whip, and as he happened to 
be passing her house on his way homeward he had called to 
see if by any chance he had left it there. 

“The thing is of no great value,” he said deprecatingly, 
“but it was given to me by a dear friend who died in my 
arms, and ’tis for that reason I prize it. Think you that 
one of your servants might have seen it?” 

“All the servants are out, with the exception of Bingley 
and Claudine,” she explained hastily, as she pulled the bell- 
rope. “I didn’t expect visitors tonight, and I allowed 
them to go and see the preparations for Bolderburn Fair.” 

This was true. She had thought it wiser to get rid of 
them until such time as Averill should have been taken 
away, and she had given them permission to stay out until 
midnight, in the hope that by that time her dangerous and 
distasteful task would be done. 

Of course, both the butler and the maid, when questioned, 
pleaded ignorance regarding the missing whip, but, despite 
their protestations, Carless did not seem satisfied. He mused 
for a moment after they had been dismissed, and then he 
said with disconcerting suddenness: 

“Who was the man I saw just now looking out of one 
of the upstairs windows? Was it not Sir Randolph Gorst’s 
lackey?” 

Barbara went white to the lips. It was on the tip of her 
tongue to deny all knowledge of the man of whom Carless 
spoke, but something in his attitude warned her of the un¬ 
wisdom of such a course. 

“ ’Tis possible,” she said, with ill-assumed indifference. 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


341 


“He came here a little while ago with a message, and as he 
is enamored of my maid it may be that he still lingers.” 

“Then, if so, may I speak to him?” he asked pleasantly. 
“I passed him on the road yesterday just before I missed 
my whip, and he may have picked it up.” 

The suggestion was so improbable that Barbara’s nervous 
apprehension was instantly intensified. But from the ques¬ 
tions which he put to the lackey, who presently appeared, 
Carless seemed to be concerned only with his lost keepsake. 
Certainly he kept the man waiting a considerable time whilst 
he finished relating a lengthy and rather pointless story to 
Barbara, but upon reflection this seemed to her to be devoid 
of significance. 

Yet when Carless took his departure Barbara’s unease did 
not go with him. Instead, she became the prey of ever- 
increasing fear—a fear that was none the less disturbing 
because it was intangible; and so strongly did this fear obsess 
her that it was with a sense of unspeakable relief that, shortly 
after ten o’clock, she heard Bingley announce Sir Randolph 
Gorst. 

“Show him in, Bingley,” she said, “and then you may 
retire. I shall not require you again tonight.” 

“Very good, my lady,” said the man. 

The baronet’s appearance as he strode somewhat un¬ 
steadily into the room was not very reassuring. It was patent 
to Barbara that he had been drinking, and his face was 
flushed and his attitude truculent. 

“Well, madam, I have come for my bride,” he said 
thickly. “Is she ready for me?” 

Barbara sneered. “For anything I know she is as you 
left her,” she said coldly. “She interests me little, though 
I find it in me to pity her.” 

“Pity her? Why?” The look on Gorst’s face was ugly, 
but in her contempt for him she disregarded it. 

“Because of her bridegroom,” she replied. 

“Be careful', Barbara,” he warned her. “And remember 


342 CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 

that once upon a time that same bridegroom was nearly 
yours.” 

“I have never ceased to thank the gods for preventing 
it,” she retorted fearlessly. 

“Haven’t you indeed?” He took a step towards her 
and suddenly seized her by the wrist. “Then what would 
you say if I let the woman upstairs go hang and took you 
to my arms instead ? After all, methinks I should be making 
a good bargain, for you are the most alluring woman I ever 
saw. Well, what would you say to that?” 

He glared into her face with flaming, gloating eyes, but 
she did not flinch. She returned his stare with disdainful 
hauteur, and a little smile of contempt played about her lips 
as she said with quiet emphasis: 

“I would rather be dead!” 

For an instant she thought he was going to strike her; 
then he flung her roughly from him and lurched to the door. 
W^h his hand on the handle he turned to her again. 

“Farewell for the present, madam,” he said. “The 
carriage which is to take Lady Averill away will be here at 
half-past eleven. That gives me an hour in her company— 
sixty long minutes during which she and I will be alone, 
without possibility of disturbance.” He laughed gratingly. 
“And when those minutes have sped she will be glad to go 
anywhere with me!” 

Barbara started violently. The significant manner in 
which his words were uttered roused all her womanly 
instincts to instant rebellion. Her eyes and cheeks flamed 
with outraged anger, but when she spoke the tones of her 
voice were as tinkling ice. 

“Not very long ago, Sir Randolph Gorst, you claimed to 
be a gentleman. Have you abandoned that claim?” 

He flushed. “The Polite World—the world of Lady 
Averill Stapleton, Buck Burgoyne, and their like—has 
hitherto denied my claim,” he retorted sullenly. 

“What does that matter?” she countered swiftly. “A 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


343 


gentleman only forfeits his claim to the title when he for¬ 
feits his honor and his self-respect.” 

“Bah! You talk like a snivelling parson,” he sneered. 

“Perhaps I do, but methinks you need the sermon. If 
you are going to marry Averill, how will it help you if you 
break her heart beforehand?” 

A leering smile broke on his flushed face—the smile of a 
satyr. “Ah! There you have it,” he cried. "If I marry 
Averill. Who can tell ? After all, I think that, as a wife, 
you would suit me better, Barbara. But we shall see.” 

Before she could utter another word he was gone. For 
a moment she stood bewildered; then she ran to a writing- 
table and began feverishly to pull open its drawers. Her 
mind was made up. Much as she hated Averill, she would 
somehow save her from the dreadful fate which threatened 
her, and to that end she sought a pistol. Almost immed¬ 
iately she found one; but it was unloaded, and she had no 
idea where powder and ball might be. 

Then heavy footsteps told her that Gorst was returning, 
and fearful lest he should suspect her purpose, she ran back 
to the couch on which lay her sewing, and, picking up the 
gleaming silks, began to ply her needle. In her haste she 
upset the work-basket which stood on the arm of the couch, 
and its contents were spread in confusion on the seat beside 
her. 

But she had not had time to remedy this when the door 
burst open, and Gorst, the picture of demoniacal rage, ap¬ 
peared on the threshold. He stood there eyeing her with 
baleful eyes for an appreciable time before he closed the 
door behind him. Then he turned the key which was 
in the lock and put it in his pocket. His action had a dread 
significance for Barbara, and instantly she rose from her 
seat and stood facing him in the attitude of one who expects 
physical attack. 

“You damned traitress!” he snarled, coming towards 
her. “Where is she?” 


344 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“She? Who?” 

“You know who! Averill!” he shouted. “She has 
gone—vanished—and Thorp lies bound and gagged in her 
place.” 

“Gone! Impossible!” To anyone less blinded by rage 
than Gorst it must have been patent that her incredulous 
surprise was genuine; but he was oblivious to everything 
except his own fury, and his conviction that it was to Bar¬ 
bara that Averill owed her escape remained unshaken. 

“You are an admirable actress, madam, but, by God! 
I’ll teach you to act before I’m done with you!” he cried, 
beside himself with passion. “Do you expect me to believe 
that she could have escaped unaided in this manner without 
your hearing a sound? Bah! I’m not such a credulous 
fool as all that, you-” 

“I know nothing whatever about it,” she asserted calmly, 
but pallid to the lips with fear. “I have seen nothing, 
heard nothing; and if-” 

“Shut your lying mouth, you jade!” he snarled. “How 
could anyone outside your own household even know that 
she was here, let alone rescue her? The men who assisted 
me are all miles away, and lie helplessly drunk in a tavern. 
You have managed the thing cleverly, madam. With the 
aid of your grooms you trussed up my lackey and let 
Lady Averill go, and then you sent your servants out so 
that they could not betray you to me.” 

“Please don’t be ridiculous,” she said scornfully. “Ask 
your lackey. Doubless he will tell you the truth.” 

“My lackey is unconscious, and like to be. If I be any 
judge, he has concussion of the brain, and ’twill be many 
a day ere he can tell his story. And you knew that, didn’t 
you, madam? But no matter. You have chosen, and 
you must abide by the consequences. If I can’t have 
Averill I’ll have you, and, by heaven! I’ll take you now!” 

Without further warning he seized Barbara by the 
shoulders and began to force her backwards on to the couch. 




CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


345 


She was a strong woman, and fought him with the fury 
of a tigress, but her efforts were of no avail. Gorst laughed 
at her blows and her scratches, and little by little he bent her 
over until, still struggling violently, she lay on her back on 
the cushions with two cruel, relentless hands holding her 
down. 

Twice did she scream during the struggle, but her cries 
brought her no succor. The only other living soul in the 
house was the butler, Bingley, and it was unlikely that he, 
sleeping in a back room on the second floor, would hear her. 
Gorst’s evil, passion-lit face was now close to hers, and he 
smiled triumphantly as he saw the stark, despairing dread 
that shone in her eyes. Her breath came in short, quick 
gasps, and gradually her struggles grew weaker, until at 
length she lay still and quiet in his grasp. 

“So, madam, you submit, eh?” he said, with a cruel laugh. 
“That is wise, for there is none to aid you, and your struggles 
only prolong matters to no purpose.” 

He leaned forward to kiss her lips, but with a swift turn 
of her head she evaded the caress. So, releasing her right 
arm, he brutally seized her chin in a vice-like grip, and, 
twisting her head round, he held her whilst he pressed his 
hot lips to hers. 

But even as he did so Barbara’s fingers touched some¬ 
thing cold and hard which lay on the couch at her side. It 
was a large pair of scissors which had fallen from her over¬ 
turned work-basket. Instinctively her fingers closed round 
the naked steel, and, scarcely aware of what she did, she 
lifted her hand and plunged the closed, sharp-pointed blades 
deep into Gorst’s side. 

With a wild cry of anguish he released his hold on her 
and staggered back a pace. And at that moment a single 
shot rang out, and Gorst pitched forward lifeless to the 
floor. 

Almost fainting with horror, Barbara turned her head 
towards the window, and immediately her staring eyes rested 


346 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


on the grim, masked figure of a man who stood in the cur¬ 
tained embrasure, smoking pistol in hand, regarding the 
prostrate body of the baronet with a sardonic smile. 

With an effort Barbara sat upright, and the intruder 
advanced quickly into the room until he stood close beside 
her. 

“Is he dead?” she asked in a fearful whisper, her own 
possible peril from the newcomer forgotten in the tragedy 
of the moment. 

“I trust so,” he replied callously. “ ’Tis time he ceased 
to encumber the earth.” 

He knelt at Gorst’s side, but almost at once he was on his 
feet again. “Sir Randolph Gorst will trouble you no more, 
madam,” he said curtly. 

Barbara covered her face with her hands and burst into 
a violent fit of weeping. “My God! I’ve killed him,” 
she moaned. “I—a murderess! Heaven help me! Heaven 
help me!” 

In an instant the man whipped off mask and wig, and, 
sitting down on the couch at her side, he put his arm round 
her and pressed her close to his breast. His action so 
startled her that she ceased her sobs and lifted her head 
in alarm, only to let it fall again with a sigh of relief on to 
the man’s shoulder. 

“You, Ned!” she said, in a grateful whisper. “Thank 
God! ’Twas you who shot him?” 

“It was.” 

The knowledge that it was Carless who had come to her 
aid seemed to have both comforted and calmed her, and 
her voice was even, though infinitely sad, when she spoke 
again. 

“Ah, Ned, if you had only fired ten seconds sooner!” she 
said wistfully. “You were just too late.” 

“Too late! Why?” 

“Look at him.” She pointed a finger at the dead man, 
but kept her eyes steadily averted. “See you the scissors that 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 347 

are fast in his side? Those scissors are mine, and ’twas 
I who struck with them the blow that killed him.” 

Carless laughed sceptically. “Nothing of the kind, Bar¬ 
bara,” he said. “Such a wound as your puny weapon made, 
far from killing him, would not have kept him abed a 
week! ’Twas my bullet that sent him to his last account, 
for it drilled him clean through the head.” 

“Are you sure of that, Ned?” she cried, raising eyes full 
of hope to his. 

“Absolutely certain,” he asserted. 

Barbara hesitated a moment; then, with sublime courage, 
she rose to her feet and approached the dead man. She 
forced herself to look first at the bullet-hole in his temple 
and then at the welling stream which oozed from his side 
and formed an ever-growing crimson strain on the pale 
carpet. Only a very few moments did she stand so, but those 
moments were sufficient to enable her to grasp the naked 
truth. The wound which she had dealt Gorst was a fatal 
one, and Carless, fully aware of that grim fact, had fired 
his shot, $ot to kill, but so that he could take upon himself 
the guilt which was hers. 

She turned again to her companion and shook her head 
sadly. “ ’Tis no use, Ned,” she said. “I see it all too 
plainly. Such chivalry as yours is almost past belief, but it 
cannot avail me one-” 

But he interrupted her impatiently. “Your talk of 
chivalry is nonsense, Barbara,” he cried roughly. “I came 
here for the express purpose of shooting Gorst. Why 
otherwise should I have come masked and wigged in my old 
character of Black Dick?” 

“Black Dick!” she echoed, in wondering bewilderment. 
“Are you Black Dick, then?” 

“I am,” he confessed grimly. “So, you see, I was a 
criminal already, Barbara, and one crime more or less is 
of little moment. But I made a vital mistake tonight. 
After Lady Averill’s rescue I knew that Gorst would vent 



348 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


his spleen on you, and in my haste to get back here I rode 
across country. My horse fell at a fence and broke a leg, 
and I had to shoot him. I made what speed I could on 
foot, but when I reached your gate I heard you scream 
and knew what was afoot. Had it not been that the 
French window was open I should have come too late/’ 

“I have already told you that you came too late, and so 
you did,” she declared. “You cannot deceive me in this. 
’Twas I killed Gorst, not you.” 

“You did not,” he cried vehemently. “You struck him 
in self-defence, and rightly so, but-” 

She stopped him with a gesture, and, coming slowly to¬ 
wards him, she placed both her hands on his shoulders and 
gazed deep into his eyes. 

“How you must love me!” she breathed softly. 

“Love you!” he echoed. “Have I not told you a dozen 
times that I adore you?” 

“You have,” she said wistfully. “And now you have 
proved it to the very hilt. But you must go, and that 
quickly. The servants will be back soon, and then-” 

She paused, and her eyes filled again with fear. Without 
hesitation, Carless pulled her to him and kissed her passion¬ 
ately. 

“And then what?” he asked fiercely. “Are you going 
to wait here until the constables come? Are you going 
to the gallows for a man who was not fit to live?” 

“God knows!” she answered wearily, but making no 
attempt to free herself from his close embrace. 

“Aye, He does, and so do I,” he declared. “You are 
coming with me—now! There are horses in your stables, 
and with ordinary luck we can get to Liverpool and set 
sail long before they can overtake us. Are you willing?” 

“You mean that you will go with me—that you will 
aid a murderess to escape?” she said tremulously, gazing at 
him with wondering eyes. 

“No, I mean that I offer to the most wonderful woman 




CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


349 


in the world my life and my love. What matter whether 
’twas you or I who quenched the vital spark in that liber¬ 
tine? Whatever the law may say, we know that he richly 
merited his fate. Will you come with me?” 

She shook her head. “I cannot allow you to sacrifice 
yourself for my sake,” she said obstinately. 

“ ’Tis no sacrifice,” he urged. “Crisp knows me for 
Black Dick, and already he seeks to arrest me.” This 
was not correct, but to Barbara, distraught as she was, the 
words had the ring of truth, and she never thought to 
question them. “I have long been prepared for flight, and 
I have money invested abroad—enough to keep us in com¬ 
fort. Some of it was ill-gotten, maybe, but what does that 
matter?” 

“Then you will still be obliged to flee the country even 
if I refuse to go with you?” she cried eagerly. 

“I shall.” 

“And if I come, what then?” 

“Then I shall be the happiest man alive,” he said simply. 

“And is that all?” 

“All? What more could there be?” he asked, puzzled 
by the question. 

“Have—have you thought of my happiness?” she asked 
timidly, in turn. 

“I think of naught else, dear,” he replied earnestly. 
“And if you will become my wife I’ll devote my life to 
proving that to you.” 

“You offer me marriage?” she cried, the light of a won¬ 
derful joy dawning in her eyes. “After all that has 
occurred ?” 

“Why, of course!” He wrinkled his brows in perplexity. 
“That I am presumptuous I know, but I beg of you, pray 
of you, to accept my name, unworthy though it be, and with 
it my unswerving, deathless devotion. Something tells me 
that you would not regret it, Barbara.” 

For answer she took his face between her two hands and 


350 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


kissed him full on the lips. Then she broke from his 
embrace, and again placing her hands on his shoulders she 
gazed at him long and steadfastly with eyes in which the 
unshed tears gleamed brightly. 

‘‘Regret it, did you say, Ned?” she breathed at last. 
“That I shall never do. From henceforth you are my 
knight; would that the woman who dubs you so were more 
worthy of your homage!” She pulled him to her and 
kissed him again, very humbly, very tenderly. “The time 
is passing, Ned. Come,” she said softly. 

And, heedless of the man who lay there stark and cold, 
hand in hand they crossed the threshold of the open window 
and stepped out on to the path which led through the dark¬ 
ness to a new life and a strange land. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


BRINGS THE TALE TO AN END 

S ITTING by the open casement, Averill gazed out into 
the warm darkness of the velvet, star-spangled night. 
Away towards the horizon gleamed the thin sickle of a young 
moon, its faint light throwing into soft silhouette the form 
of tall poplar and stately elm. From the garden below rose 
the indescribable smell of autumn—that strange and subtle 
perfume which carries in its sensuous blend a grim reminder 
of decay and death. 

Averill sighed as this perfume ascended to her nostrils. 
Death had been very close to this house for many a long day, 
watching and waiting always for the carelessness or neglect 
which would be the signal for him to enter. But that signal 
had never been given. Night and day had she and Sylvia 
striven to keep the dread visitor at bay, fighting an uphill 
battle with the odds against them, but never faltering in 
their self-appointed task. And that task had been made ten 
times more difficult by the patient himself. Time and again 
had the doctor roundly declared that Stephen had no inten¬ 
tion of getting well. 

What were a couple of broken ribs and a lacerated back 
to a strong man? the exasperated physician had asked con¬ 
temptuously. What if his wounds had been exposed to the 
sun and the flies for seven or eight hours? Was that any 
excuse for dying? Pooh! ’Twas a malady of the mind 
from which he suffered, else he had been well again long 
ago. 

In vain had Averill recounted the agonies which Stephen 
351 



352 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


must have endured in his ride from the Nag’s Head to 
Oldfield Grange; the doctor, hard as nails himself, would 
have none of it. 

“Delirium was to be expected, of course, madam,” he 
said irritably. “But his refusal to answer to my treatment 
is just damned obstinacy and nothing else. ’Tis his mind, 
I tell you. Get his mind at rest and he is cured.” 

And now, at long last, Stephen was on the highroad to 
recovery. He was out of danger, the doctor said, but his 
progress was painfully slow\ Listless and weak, he took no 
interest in anything, and, although he had been given per¬ 
mission to talk, he said little—at least, to Averill. 

Alverford, who had visited him whenever he had been 
permitted, and Sylvia Ravenscourt were more successful 
with him, but Averill knew nothing of this. Sylvia had 
forbidden Harry to mention it to her, astutely realizing 
that to do so might be to make the situation more painful 
to her. A woman’s judgment in such cases is usually sound, 
and Harry, to whom Sylvia’s word was law, never thought 
to question it. 

To Averill, sitting idle at the window whilst her patient 
slept, there came a feeling of sadness so poignant that the 
tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. Perhaps it was the 
faintly luminous mystery of the autumn evening that affected 
her; perhaps the plaintive sigh of the fitful breeze, which, 
at long intervals, whispered of the coming of winter, chilled 
her spirits, for once she shivered as though icy fingers had 
touched her. 

But she did not close the window. Instead, she leaned 
over the sill and gazed out into the silent garden. Away 
towards the summer-house two tiny pin-points of light which 
alternately glowed and faded told her that the Colonel and 
Sergeant Ball were smoking their pipes together and making 
the most of a delightful warmth that must, before many 
more days had passed, give place to the bitter blasts of 
winter. Very soon now the beauty of the garden would 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


353 


be gone. Many of the trees were already bare, and ere 
long not a green leaf would remain except on laurel, privet 
and their like. 

Formerly Averill had watched the passing of summer with 
scarce a regret, but this time it was somehow different. It 
seemed to her that with it went the self-sufficiency which 
had hitherto been her proudest possession. The past few 
weeks, devoted to the single object of saving a man’s life, had 
altered her outlook, given her a peep into the eyes of stark 
reality. Things are apt to assume their true perspective 
when death is nigh; thoughts kindly or unworthy, words 
courteous or malicious, deeds generous or selfish—all hither¬ 
to regarded as trivial or unimportant—loom big and porten¬ 
tous; the molehills which have been magnified into moun¬ 
tains shrink into their proper insignificance. 

Soon this man whom she had nursed so tirelessly would 
go out of her life, leaving behind him—what? Just an 
emptiness which no one else could ever fill; that was all. 

A slight sound from the bed made her turn her head 
sharply, and although the room was in darkness she knew 
that Stephen was awake and gazing at her. 

“Is that you, Lady Averill?” he asked presently. 

“Yes.” The commonplace word was spoken like a caress, 
but to Stephen, occupied with his thoughts, it conveyed 
nothing beyond the information he sought. 

“Why do you sit in darkness?” 

“The night is very beautiful, and you were asleep,” she 
answered him softly. “My duty accorded with my desires, 
and I refrained from having the candles lighted. But now 
that you are awake I will ring for lights.” 

“Nay, nay,” he protested, as she moved towards the bell. 
“I also prefer the dark. I pray you sit down again.” 

She obeyed him, but instead of taking her former seat she 
sat down in a chair which stood by his bedside. 

“ ’Tis nearly time for your medicine,” she said presently, 
more for something to say than for anything else. 


354 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


He did not reply; but after a while he asked abruptly: 
“Is there any further news of Ned?” 

“None,” she replied. “Methinks we may assume that 
he got safely away, and Lady Meltondene as well, otherwise 
we should have heard.” 

“ ’Tis too soon to assume that,” he objected dubiously. 
“News travels slowly, and I think we ought not to be too 
sure.” 

“Come, come, Mr. Burgoyne; be not so gloomy,” she 
rallied him. “How long do you think ’twill be ere we may 
deem him safe?” 

“At least three weeks from the time he went away.” 

She smiled to herself in the darkness, and with apparent 
irrelevance she asked. 

“See you the moon yonder?” 

“Aye.” 

“She is scarce five days old,” she announced. 

“So I should have guessed,” he said, wondering at her 
seemingly trivial mood. 

“She has a name, Mr. Burgoyne—a name beloved by the 
country folk. Can you guess it?” 

“You mean Oliver?” he hazarded. 

She made a grimace which he could not see. “Indeed 
I don’t, sir,” she cried indignantly. “ ’Tis a much prettier 
name than that—akin to one you once gave her when you 
spoke of her to me.” 

She heard him catch his breath sharply. “Is it the har¬ 
vest moon?” he asked, in low tones. 

She paused a moment ere she replied: “No, ’tis the 

hunter’s moon.” 

“What!” he cried incredulously. “The hunter’s moon! 
How long, then, have I lain here?” 

“Over six weeks,” she replied. 

“Impossible!” 

Very quietly she told him of his weeks of delirium—of the 
agony of body and mind through wdiich he had passed. And 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 355 

finally, in a very low voice, she told him what the doctor 
had said regarding his wish to die. 

For a long time after she had finished he lay silent and 
still; then he said quietly: 

“You and Miss Ravenscourt nursed me all that time?” 

“Yes.” The monosyllable came in a whisper. 

“And you say that moon is the hunter’s moon?” 

“Yes,” she said again. 

He sighed wearily. “That was a foolish vow I made, 
Lady Averill,” he said sadly. “ ’Twas made to be broken, 
it seems. Will you forgive me for having made it?” 

“What is there to forgive?” she asked softly. “And 
’twas not altogether your fault that ’twas broken.” 

He sat up suddenly in bed. “What mean you, Averill ?” 
he cried urgently. 

“I mean that—that Fate robbed you of—of a full three 
weeks,” she faltered, thankful for the darkness that hid her 
face from him. 

“And is that all?” The eagerness had gone from his 
voice, and he sank back among his pillows. 

“What else?” she queried lightly. 

“Oh, nothing; nothing at all,” he replied wearily. “Just 
for a moment I thought your words had a deeper signi¬ 
ficance but-” 

He did not finish the sentence. Instead, he fixed his eyes 
on the sinking moon, and let his mind drift away into 
dreams of what might have been if only the gods had 
permitted him to keep his vow. How long he dreamed 
thus he did not know, but presently he found that Averill’s 
hand lay on the coverlet beside his. He knew it was there, 
not because he could see it, but because he could feel its 
touch, and instinctively his fingers closed over it. To his 
surprise, it was not withdrawn, and so he lay grasping it 
but speaking never a word. 

Presently her voice—tremulous and uncertain it seemed 
to Stephen—came to him out of the darkness. 



356 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 


“Mr. Burgoyne, was—was the doctor right when he— 
he said that you—you did not wish to get better?” she 
asked. 

She felt his fingers twitch spasmodically. “Yes, I think 
he was,” he replied evenly. 

“But—but why?” 

“Ah, how can I tell that? My mind was disordered, 
you know,” he said quickly. 

“Yes, but I mean since you became conscious,” she per¬ 
sisted. “The doctor says that your slow progress is due 
to your indifference.” 

“Does he? Well, he may be right. There is none to 
care whether I live or die, so why should I trouble?” 

Suddenly, to Stephen’s surprise and dismay, a hot tear 
splashed on the back of the hand which held hers, and she 
broke into a passion of weeping. 

“You have no right to say such things,” she sobbed. 
“Have—have you forgotten your friends, Harry and Sylvia 
among others, and—and me?” 

“You!” he echoed. 

“Yes, me. Don’t you count me as a friend?” 

“No!” The word came so abruptly that she checked 
her tears in astonishment. 

“What?” she cried. “Not after all these weeks of 
nursing you?” 

“No,” he repeated obstinately. 

She said no more, and Stephen thought that he had 
wounded her past forgiveness. But could he have seen 
her face he would have noted that her eyes shone like stars, 
and that a glad little smile curved the corners of her mouth. 
Presently her hand was withdrawn from his, but before he 
had time to regret its going her dewy lips were pressed close 
against his cheek. And he could scarce believe the evidence 
of his own senses until he heard her say, in a shy and thrilling 
whisper: 


CHANCE—AND THE WOMAN 357 

“Then, Stephen, if you will not have me for a friend will 
you take me as a wife?” 

But he could not speak. The wonder of it was too great, 
and she, thinking that he hesitated, whispered again: 

“Have you not punished me enough, dear? Or is it that 
your love is mine no longer?” 

For answer his arms, made suddenly strong by the racing, 
riotous blood that coursed in his veins, went round her and 
held her close. His lips sought hers, and for a long time not 
another word was spoken. Then she lifted her head abrupt¬ 
ly, and pushed him away. 

“Stephen, how could you be so cruel as to force me to 
offer myself to you?” she reproached him pensively. 

“I did no such thing, Averill,” he protested in amaze¬ 
ment. 

“You did, you did!” she declared vehemently. “For had 
I done otherwise, as soon as you were well you would have 
left me without a word, now wouldn’t you?” 

“Perhaps I should,” he agreed, quite seriously. 

“I knew it,” she cried triumphantly. “And perhaps I 
deserved it.” She sighed. “I wonder if ever, in the days 
that are to come, you will wish that I had let you go.” 


THE END 















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